


What's (the Point of) Your Name?

by KuriKuri



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Curses, Deaf Clint Barton, Demons, Homophobia, I Believe in Jasper Sitwell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:31:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2532503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKuri/pseuds/KuriKuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A deal maker?” Phil parroted, skeptical. </p><p>“Yeah. You know, I turn a pile of straw into gold, you give me your firstborn sort of thing,” she replied, wiggling her fingers like a twelve year old trying to do a magic trick.</p><p>“I’m gay. I’m not going to have a firstborn,” Phil said before he was able to sensor himself. </p><p>“Don’t be so sure,” the woman laughed, smirking slightly. “But that was just an example. There are many other things I’d rather take from you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's (the Point of) Your Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to my awesome beta-reader, [benevalyn](http://benevalyn.tumblr.com), and my awesome fan artist, [sealcat](http://sealcat.livejournal.com)!
> 
> Link to Art: [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2570216)
> 
> Trigger Warnings: mild homophobia, racism, and ableism, along with off-screen canon-typical violence

Phil Coulson, sixteen years old and shivering on a park bench, was crying. Part of him wanted to be embarrassed about it, but, to be completely honest, he mostly couldn’t bring himself to care. He rubbed one hand over his face, shoving his bulky, thick framed glasses up uncomfortably as he tried to wipe away the wetness from his cheeks. 

God, he was such an idiot.

“There you are!” a voice called out, making Phil look up abruptly. He was momentarily torn between his desire to bolt and his desire to talk to his sister who might be the only person who could understand. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” 

“Really?” Phil asked, the words spilling out of his mouth before he was able to sensor them. “I mean – ”

“Of course, you idiot,” Ellie Coulson said as Phil made room for her on the bench. “You’re my baby brother.” 

“Thanks,” Phil mumbled, his cheeks heating slightly and his heart warming with affection. 

“Hey, that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, though,” Ellie replied, her voice turning stern, making Phil’s heart rate speed up nervously. 

“Am I…” Phil started, pausing for a moment and licking his chapped lips, trying to figure out how to phrase his question. “Am I allowed to come home?” 

Ellie fell silent, staring at Phil with a contemplative expression, clearly choosing her words carefully. 

“Yeah. Mom and Dad aren’t going to kick you to the curb because of your…” Ellie answered, waving her hands vaguely, “ _preferences,_ or whatever. You’re still family.” 

“So they’re okay with – ” Phil started, hopeful, fully forgetting the sadness which had consumed him only moments prior. 

“I’m not finished yet!” Ellie protested, cutting Phil off who quickly shut his mouth. “You can come home, but you’ve gotta do something about this whole – this whole _gay_ bullshit!” 

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Phil asked, frowning, his anger resurging. “It’s not like there’s an ‘off’ switch or something.” 

“Look, I know going for boys seems like the easy option because girls are mysterious and have cooties or whatever, but you’ve just got to try a little harder,” Ellie replied, her tone so earnest and well meaning that it nearly broke Phil’s heart. “You’ve just got to be a little more confident in yourself and girls will come flocking.” 

“That’s not the problem,” Phil argued, his hands clenching into fists at his side as the cold December wind reddened his cheeks. “I just – ”

“Mom says that she knows some good therapists that can help with stuff like this,” Ellie said, placing her hand over one of Phil’s, ignoring the way Phil flinched at her touch. “And, you know, we’re your family. You can tell us if Mike forced you or – ”

“Fucking hell, Ellie – is that what you think? That Mike _made_ me kiss him, or that there’s something wrong with my brain?” Phil snapped, jerking his hand back and stumbling up from the bench, looking down at his sister and the shocked expression on her face. “There’s nothing wrong with me and there’s nothing wrong with Mike! _You’re_ the one who’s messed up!”

With that, Phil stormed off, doing his best to tune out his sister’s voice as she called out to him and quickening his pace as he heard her get up from the bench. Soon enough he was running at a full out sprint, not caring about the burn in his lungs or the way the cold Chicago air lashed at his face. He did his best to lose himself in the crowds still milling around Millennium Park, eventually slipping into a Walgreens just to escape the cold for a few minutes. 

He wandered aimlessly through the store, eventually pausing in front of a shelf displaying cheep blankets, wondering if he should buy one – wondering if sleeping rough was better than going back to a mother, father, and sister who couldn’t bring themselves to accept him. Not that there was any guarantee that they’d be willing to take him back in now, after the way he’d just yelled at Ellie. 

“If you’re going to buy one, I’d go with the green plaid,” a smooth voice said, causing Phil to nearly jump out of his skin. 

He looked over his shoulder sharply, frowning as he found a petite Japanese woman standing just behind his shoulder, scrutinizing the blanket display. She looked like a college student, dressed in worn jeans, converse and a bright red hoodie, but something about her made his hair stand on end. 

“Not that you necessarily need one, though,” she continued, looking over at Phil and pinning him with her strangely intense gaze. “You can still go back to your folks. Sleeping rough ain’t fun.” 

“You know a lot about the subject?” Phil asked, trying to ignore the strange feeling of dread in his gut. “Sleeping rough.”

“Never done it myself,” she said, shrugging. “Seen enough people who have, though.” 

“Oh,” Phil replied, unsure what else to say. 

“I can help you, you know,” the strange woman said suddenly, surprising Phil. 

“How do I know you’re not a serial killer?” Phil answered, frowning and taking a step away from her. “Or a human trafficker? Or a mafia boss?” 

“Do I look like a freaking mafia boss?” she asked, raising one eyebrow, Phil shrugging in response. “And I don’t mean giving you a place to stay.”

“Then what do you mean?” Phil asked, curious. 

“I mean that I can make your family accept you,” the woman said, snapping her fingers as if making his parents non-homophobic was just that easy. 

“How do you even know – ” Phil stuttered, backing further away from her, a chill running up his spine. “Have you been following me?” 

“Sort of,” she replied, shrugging nonchalantly as her eyes flashed completely red, making Phil suck in a sharp breath. 

“What _are_ you?” Phil gasped, and although he wanted to run, his feet wouldn’t respond, as though they were glued to the spot. 

“Rude,” the creature – because although Phil wasn’t exactly superstitious, he was pretty damn sure she wasn’t human – muttered, flipping strands of her inky black hair out of her face. “I’m just here to help you. I’m – well, let’s just say that I’m a sort of deal maker.” 

“A deal maker?” Phil parroted, skeptical. 

“Yeah. You know, I turn a pile of straw into gold, you give me your firstborn sort of thing,” she replied, wiggling her fingers like a twelve year old trying to do a magic trick.

“I’m gay. I’m not going to have a firstborn,” Phil said before he was able to sensor himself. 

“Don’t be so sure,” the woman laughed, smirking slightly. “But that was just an example. There are many other things I’d rather take from you.”

“Like?” Phil prompted, crossing his arms over his chest defensively and trying to look aloof and in control of the situation even though internally he was trying not to completely freak out. 

“I like the name ‘Phillip’,” she answered, throwing Phil off guard. 

“What?” Phil asked, caught off guard. 

“I said, I like your first name,” the woman replied slowly, her eyes bleeding back to their natural dark color. “I want it.” 

“You want my first name,” Phil repeated, giving her an odd look as she let out an annoyed huff.

“Yeah. You give me your first name, and I’ll make your family accept you,” she said, as if she were talking to a very young child. “Simple.” 

“When you say you’ll take my name…” Phil continued, looking to the Japanese woman for clarification. 

“You can’t tell people your name – they’ll just forget it right away – but also, they won’t even stop to consider that you have a first name,” she answered, nonchalant. “You’ll just be ‘Coulson’ or ‘that kid’ or whatever.” 

“I…” Phil said, pausing for a moment to consider his options. “Deal.” 

“Excellent,” the woman said, smirking as she snapped her fingers again. 

Coulson blinked and when he opened his eyes again, she was gone. 

\---

When he went downstairs the next morning after waking up in his own bed, his mother called him ‘Dear,’ his father called him ‘Son,’ and his sister called him ‘Brat.’ 

He smiled to himself and decided that he’d clearly gotten the better end of the deal. 

\---

Well, he thought he’d gotten the better end of the deal. Keyword being “thought.” It wasn’t until a week later that he really realized this, though. Not until he tried asking Mike – who was partially at fault for this mess – out on a date. 

“You’re… asking me out,” Mike said, giving Coulson a strange look, clutching at his backpack awkwardly, an uncertain expression on his face. “Like on a date.” 

“Yeah. Like on a date,” Coulson agreed, giving the other boy a tentative and hopeful smile. 

“Look, um,” Mike started, and Coulson’s smile faded as he heard the pause where his name should have been. “I’m sure you’re awesome and all, but I don’t even know your name.” 

“I’m – ” Coulson started, but he cut himself off as he realized that even if he tried to tell Mike his name, the other boy wouldn’t remember it. “I – sorry. Just forget it.” 

He turned tail and ran, cheeks burning in shame. 

\---

It wasn’t like everything was horrible from there on out. People didn’t dislike him any more than they did before, but, then again, they didn’t like him any better either. He was just “that kid.” Nice, but not particularly memorable.

He’d had friends before the incident, of course, and they still liked him well enough. They still had their little inside jokes and they still hung out together, but it was a little strange to be addressed as “dude” or even occasionally “bro.” 

The pauses were the worst, though. Just like when Mike had rejected him, sometimes people would just stop in the middle of what they were saying, blinking at him blankly as they realized that they had no fucking clue who he was. It was always the worst when it happened to one of his family members, of course – when his mother wanted to yell “Phillip James Coulson!” only to stop right as she opened her mouth, looking at him with the strangest expression of incomprehension before yelling “Young man!” instead. 

So, once he graduated high school, joining the military seemed like the most obvious option. Everyone there would just call him by his last name anyway, right? 

And he was right. Of course he was right. He made friends – great friends – and his first name didn’t factor into the equation at all. 

Only… well, if _this_ was his solution, why’d he even bother with that stupid deal in the first place? He wasn’t about to get much acceptance with DADT still in place, after all. And even if DADT was eventually repealed, well, the likelihood of anyone dating him was pretty low. Who’d date someone whose first name they didn’t even know? Oh, one night stands were fine – you didn’t need a name for those – but a long term relationship? 

By age twenty-one, Phil Coulson had given up on romance. 

\---

Marcus, though. Marcus was a godsend. Coulson didn’t think he’d ever heard the man address anyone by anything other than a nickname (which, honestly, made Coulson wonder how he’d never gotten cited for insubordination before). This, of course, suited Coulson just fine. It was surprisingly nice, actually, because nicknames provided a sort of closeness that even first names couldn’t allow. 

Not that the nickname replaced his lost name. Apparently he couldn’t have a consistent nickname, as that would count as a new first name. Oh, Marcus called him “Cheese” often enough, but it still wasn’t quite the same. 

“Hey, Coulson,” Marcus said, sliding into a seat across from him in the mess hall. 

Coulson paused, looking at Marcus inquiringly, a forkful of mac and cheese halfway to his mouth. It was extremely unusual for Marcus to address him by his actual name, and it immediately set him on edge. 

“Johnson,” Coulson greeted warily. 

“How do you feel about DC?” Marcus asked casually, making Coulson frown. 

“Washington DC?” he clarified, Marcus nodding. “Nice museums. Good public transport.”

“Glad you think so, because you’re shipping out with me at five hundred,” Marcus said, leaning over to steal a celery stick off of Coulson’s tray. “Bring all your stuff and don’t be late.”

“Please, I’m always on time. Wish I could say the same about your lazy ass,” Coulson snorted, letting Marcus take a second piece of celery. 

“I’m always where I need to be when I need to be there,” Marcus retorted, making Coulson let out a snort of laughter.

“Tell that to Colonel Martinez next time you try to skip out on his morning training session,” Coulson replied, a small smile on his face. 

“Then it’s a good thing that starting tomorrow we don’t answer to him anymore,” Marcus said, stealing one last celery stick before standing up from the table and pinning Coulson with an intense look. 

“What?” Coulson replied, blinking. 

“Five hundred tomorrow. Be there,” Marcus said, as if that answered Coulson’s question, before turning and striding out of the mess hall. 

Coulson looked after him for a second before returning to his mac and cheese, shaking his head. He might as well just accept whatever crazy scheme Marcus had cooked up now.

\---

Twenty-four hours later, Coulson was no longer an army ranger, though SHIELD seemed nice enough. 

\---

Of course, things progressed similarly for Coulson in SHIELD as they had in the army. Well, except for the fact that more of his missions affected the security of _the entire fucking world_. It was great. 

Socially, though, things were pretty much the same. People were polite, and he was respected – well liked, even. He still had Marcus, of course. (Whose name was now apparently Nick Fury? Clearly he wasn’t the only one with identity issues.)

But beyond Marcus, he didn’t exactly have any close connections. He’d gone out with colleagues for drinks a couple of times in the beginning, hoping to at least make some acquaintances, if not friends, but he soon realized that his presence really only made things awkward. SHIELD agents were extremely private (to the point where they were paranoid, even), and their reluctance to share personal details with someone whose name they didn’t even know was practically palpable.

Suffice to say, Coulson stopped going. 

Throughout the next few years of his tenure at SHIELD, he fell into a sort of comfortable limbo, isolated as it was. In fact, he’d _almost_ stopped lingering on the knowledge that he’d never find any sort of romantic partner. He’d almost stopped caring.

Of course, he should have known that it couldn’t last. 

“ _What_ is going on here?” Coulson snapped, slamming his tray down on an empty table in the cafeteria in front of two men who were sprawled on the floor in a tangle of limbs, black eyes, and blood splatter. 

“Nothing, Agent Coulson, sir,” the taller agent involved in the scuffle replied as the two men untangled themselves, both standing to attention, albeit reluctantly. 

“It doesn’t look like nothing, Agent,” Coulson said, his tone sharp, holding more than a hint of warning. 

“The conflict has been resolved, sir,” the other offender answered, and Coulson paused as he recognized the man as Hill’s new prodigy recruit – a former assassin, codename ‘Hawkeye.’

“I am aware that you’re new to SHIELD, Agent Barton, but you should know that beating the shit out of fellow agents isn’t our preferred method of conflict resolution,” Coulson retorted, noticing the way Barton stiffened at his words. 

“You could’a fooled me, sir,” Barton muttered and Coulson had to forcibly tamp down on another surge of anger at his insubordination. 

“Agent Frederickson, Agent Hill will take your statement and issue your punishment,” Coulson decided, the agent in question snapping to attention grudgingly, before Coulson turned back to the other source of his growing headache. “Barton, you’re coming with me.” 

Coulson was pretty sure he heard Barton mutter something about fascists under his breath, but he elected to ignore it for the sake of his sanity. His self-control was legendary, and he wasn’t about to let one obnoxious kid of an agent get to him. 

Because Barton _was_. A kid, that is – at least compared to Coulson. Just barely twenty-one, to Coulson’s thirty-two. He’d only just legally gained the right to drink, which was a sobering thought. Not that it excused any of his actions, of course. As Barton’s superior, he still had to treat him as he would any other agent, despite how badly Barton’s file made him want to hunt down certain people. 

“Sit,” Coulson ordered as they entered his office, indicating the chair on the opposite side of the desk from him. 

Barton obeyed, but in a callous, flippant sort of way, sprawling out in the chair as if he was about to have a casual chat with a close friend. Or, well, that’s what he was going for, Coulson thought. The tension in every inch of Barton’s spine wasn’t very difficult for him to pick out, though. 

“Care to explain yourself, Agent Barton?” Coulson started, folding his hands together over his desk, looking over at him levelly. 

“No, sir,” Barton replied easily as he folded his arms over his chest and slouched even further down in his chair. 

“You know, I can’t help you if I don’t know the circumstances,” Coulson sighed, leaning back slightly, not missing the way Barton’s sharp eyes warily tracked his every movement. “You’re forcing me to assume that you were both the perpetrator and the one at fault here. I can’t lighten your sentence if I’m forced to assume the worst, and I don’t think that Agent Frederickson is going to paint you in the most flattering light.”

“I fucked his girlfriend,” Barton said, in the sort of tone that made it clear that he thought the confession would end their conversation. 

“No, you didn’t,” Coulson replied, not even batting an eye, but internally enjoying the surprised look Barton gave him. 

“How the fuck would you know?” Barton retorted, scowling, obviously feeling more unnerved by the second. 

“Because the day a dick like Frederickson gets a girlfriend is the day Fury lets a pirate joke slide,” Coulson answered dryly, startling a laugh out of Barton. 

(Of course, the main reason Coulson knew that Barton wouldn’t have done something like that was an old FBI interview with Barney Barton in which he cussed out their asshole father for sleeping around and neglecting his family. Not that he was going to tell Barton he knew that.)

“I almost like you,” Barton said, what looked like a genuine grin on his face. “’course that doesn’t mean I’m gonna tell you anything.”

“Fine,” Coulson replied, making Barton blink in surprise again.

“Okay. So, then – ” Barton started, but Coulson cut him off before he could make a break for the door. 

“I want you back in this office at seventeen hundred tomorrow, on the dot,” Coulson ordered, watching the smile slip from Barton’s face. “You’ll be helping me file paperwork. _And_ you’ll continue filing paperwork for me every day until you decide to explain your conflict with Frederickson to me or another agent with level seven clearance or higher. After that, we can determine your actual punishment.”

The glare that Barton shot him was positively acidic. 

\---

Having Barton file his paperwork was surprisingly less stressful and annoying than Coulson had thought it would be. Then again, he’d also thought that it would last a week, tops. 

Barton had been filing his paperwork for close to three months now. 

Not that they had been three solid months, because both of them did have jobs outside of paperwork – assignments that typically required week-long travel and extended medical stays. Of course, Barton never bothered staying in medical as long as he should, and Coulson felt more than a little guilty as he watched Barton wince, shifting his position on the office couch in order to take the weight off of his badly bruised shoulder blade. 

“How long do you plan on keeping this up, Agent?” Coulson asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had descended over the room. 

Barton ignored him. 

“Agent Barton?” Coulson repeated, but Barton didn’t so much as twitch in response. “That was not a rhetorical question.” 

Still, no answer. 

“Barton!” Coulson snapped, anger welling inside him, but it quickly dissipated as Barton startled, practically jumping out of his seat as his eyes darted around the room. 

“Yes, sir?” Barton finally answered, his voice sounding a little strange as he recomposed himself. 

“Have you been getting enough sleep?” Coulson asked, feeling a bit concerned about Barton’s strange reaction. 

“I get enough,” Barton said, before changing his expression to a smirk. “Not that I would be opposed to getting less, if that’s what you’re suggesting, sir.”

“Stand down, Agent,” Coulson replied blandly, fighting down the blush that threatened to cover his cheeks at Barton’s suggestion. “Back to my original question, though. How long do you plan on filing my paperwork for?”

“I dunno,” Barton answered, still staring at Coulson. “I suppose I’ll be here until the end of my SHIELD career or until you get tired of me. Whichever comes first.”

“Frederickson said that you were a liability,” Coulson said, not missing the way Barton tensed at his words. “Is that what you don’t want to admit to?”

“Do you honestly think that Hill would put me in the field if I was?” Barton scoffed, lips turning down in a scowl. 

“No, but I’d still like to know why Frederickson would think so,” Coulson replied calmly, trying not to fidget under Barton’s intense look. 

Barton just stared at him for a while longer, assessing him carefully. Behind him, the door to Coulson’s office opened and one of the new interns stuck her head in, glancing between Barton and Coulson and giving him a questioning look. Coulson frowned as he looked back at Barton, who hadn’t reacted to her entrance in the slightest, his eyes still trained solidly on Coulson. 

It wasn’t until Coulson motioned for the intern to leave that Barton bothered to acknowledge her presence, glancing back over his shoulder at her. Coulson frowned, studying Barton carefully while his back was turned. And, when Barton’s gaze was once again trained on him, he decided to try something. 

“So, Hill knows about your predicament, then?” Coulson asked.

Or, well, he kind of asked. He mouthed the words, but no sound actually bypassed his lips. 

“Yeah, she knows,” Barton replied, as if there was nothing wrong with what Coulson had just done. 

“You’re deaf,” Coulson said simply, and Barton’s eyes widened in surprise at his proclamation before his expression turned cold. 

“Why have you been harassing me about it if you already know?” he asked, his tone clipped and hostile. 

“I only just realized,” Coulson admitted, watching as Barton’s eyes tracked his lips in a way which was so obvious now that Coulson knew he was doing it. “You hide it well.” 

“I have eighty decibel degree hearing loss,” Barton admitted, slumping back into the couch, his hands fiddling with the forms he had been reviewing. “I wear hearing aids most of the time.”

“But you’re not now,” Coulson clarified, although he didn’t phrase it as a question. 

“I have them with me,” Barton said, sounding a little put out as he leaned forward and started digging through his bag. “Just give me a sec – ”

“You don’t have to wear them when you’re with me if you don’t want to,” Coulson cut in, but Barton was too focused on finding his hearing aids to look up and read Coulson’s lips. 

He watched in silence as Barton fiddled with the devices before fitting them neatly into his ear. The hearing aids looked remarkably like SHIELD’s standard issue comms, which, Coulson supposed, was why he hadn’t paid attention to them before. He mostly just saw Barton after missions – when it would be logical for him to still be wearing his comm – and when he was filing papers – during which he apparently took out his hearing aids. Clearly Hill knew about the situation, then, as these hearing aids had most likely been custom made by R&D. 

“Are they uncomfortable?” Coulson asked once Barton had finished adjusting his hearing aids.

“Kind of,” Barton answered, seemingly surprised by Coulson’s question. “’s not too bad, though.” 

“You don’t have to wear them when you’re with me if you don’t want to,” Coulson repeated, and Barton shot him an indecipherable look. “It doesn’t matter to me.” 

“You sure?” Barton asked, again surprised, but pleasantly so this time.

“As long as you don’t mind me throwing paper airplanes at you to get your attention,” Coulson replied dryly, trying not to smile as Barton let out an amused snort. 

“Sir, if you can hit me with a paper airplane, with or without my hearing aids, then I shouldn’t be in SHIELD,” Barton said, smirking. 

“You seem to be underestimating my skills, Agent,” Coulson retorted, although his tone was more mischievous than annoyed. 

“I dunno, sir. Have you actually been out in the field since dinosaurs roamed the earth?” Barton drawled, and it took quite a bit of willpower for Coulson to not let out a huff of laughter. 

“I’ll have you know that I was invaluable to Captain America during World War II,” Coulson replied, finally managing to startle a proper laugh out of Barton. 

“Didn’t know you had it in you, sir,” Barton said, and Coulson wasn’t entirely sure if he meant him fighting alongside Captain America or the fact that he had made a joke. 

“Coulson,” he said abruptly, Barton giving him a confused look. “You don’t have to keep calling me ‘sir.’ Just Coulson is fine.” 

“Okay,” Barton answered, pausing for a moment, clearly a little thrown by their change in topic. “Coulson.” 

“Barton,” Coulson replied, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Barton looked at him for a moment longer before carefully removing his hearing aids. Coulson counted it as a victory. And for some reason, for the first time, someone calling him by his last name didn’t feel like a defeat.

\---

Three days later, Coulson scoured the internet for video tutorials on American Sign Language. The first phrase he learned how to sign was, “My name is Phil.” 

He couldn’t bring himself to use it. 

\---

Despite telling him about his hearing impairment, Barton still wouldn’t tell him the specifics of his altercation with Agent Frederickson. But, if he was being entirely truthful with himself, Coulson was willing to let it slide in order to maintain the companionable relationship they’d developed through mutual paperwork sessions. 

During which he still hadn’t managed to hit Barton with a paper airplane. Not that he tried all that often. 

He’d tried signing a couple of times, his movements heavy and awkward, the antithesis of his normal steady and sure demeanor. The first time he’d done it, Barton had given him such a perplexed and dumbfounded look that he’d started to wonder if he’d accidentally said something horribly rude or completely indecipherable. However, Barton had then informed him that, no, his signing was fine – it was just that no one had tried to communicate with him in ASL since he was fifteen. 

“I mean, I don’t care if you do it, but I just – ” Barton had said, cutting himself off for a moment. “I don’t sign anymore.”

Coulson had wondered what Barton meant by “anymore,” but hadn’t asked for elaboration. Barton hadn’t offered any.

\---

“Hey, Coulson,” Barton said, his now familiar voice distracting him from his paperwork.

“Yes?” Coulson replied, looking up from his work, straightening out his stiff spine and suppressing a yawn. 

“It’s about eight,” Barton said, glancing pointedly over at the clock on the wall behind him. 

“Oh,” Coulson answered, trying to sound neutral, although he wasn’t looking forward to sitting in the dim office lighting by himself. “You’re free to go. I did say you only had to stay until seven.”

Clint shrugged, as if staying for an extra hour to help sort paperwork wasn’t a big deal. 

“You should get dinner with me,” Barton continued, and Coulson was pretty sure that time stopped for a moment as he tried possessing those words. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it – trying for a relationship with Barton. He was attractive, amazingly so, with a sharp (but often self-deprecating) sense of humor. And, therefore, _completely_ out of Coulson’s league. Not to mention the issue of power differences and, well, the whole name thing. 

Coulson stared at Barton in shock. 

“What?” Barton asked, staring back, confused for a moment before his eyes widened and his cheeks reddened. “I – that’s not what – I’m not trying to hit on you. Sir.”

Coulson couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed by Barton’s proclamation. 

“I just thought, you know, because neither of us have eaten yet and it’s probably about time to wrap up for the night… and it’s not that weird, right? Grabbing a bite to eat with a – ” Barton hesitated. “ – coworker.” 

Coulson told himself that it was just wishful thinking to wonder if Barton had stopped himself from saying “friend” instead of “coworker.” It probably was. 

“No, it’s fine,” Coulson replied, trying to will away the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. “Just let me finish signing this out.” 

Barton gave him a tentative smile. 

\---

“Hey, Coulson,” Barton said, startling him. 

“Barton?” Coulson replied, hoping that he hadn’t outwardly shown how caught off guard he was. 

After all, Barton wasn’t supposed to be in his office right now. If anything, he was supposed to be down in medical, getting the required post-mission checkup, having just returned from Dar es Salaam. 

“Medical already released me with a clean bill of health,” Barton said, as if having read Coulson’s mind. 

Coulson wondered when that sort of easy communication had become the norm with them.

“How was Tanzania?” Coulson asked, pushing his paperwork aside to give Barton his full attention. 

“Hot. My Swahili’s shit,” Barton answered, plopping himself down onto the couch and sprawling out in a way that seemed to take up all the empty space in the small office. “And I kind of have a craving for ugali, which is weird because I should be totally sick of it by now. Is that Stockholm syndrome?” 

“I’m not quite sure it works like that,” Coulson said, a small smile on his lips, “but I do think that there’s a Ugandan place not too far from here. Does Uganda have ugali?” 

“Heck if I know,” Barton replied, slumping further down into the couch cushions. 

“Or we could go to the new Thai restaurant that Sitwell recommended,” Coulson continued, turning his attention to his computer for a moment in order to start shutting it down. 

“Oooh, the Sitwell seal of approval,” Barton said, grinning widely and raising one eyebrow. “By all means, then.” 

He made a move to stand, but before he could, Agent Morse stuck her head into the office, drawing their attention. 

“Clint! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said, sounding halfway between amused and irritated. 

“I’ve already been to medical,” Barton replied, mildly annoyed. 

“Yeah, I know,” Morse answered, frowning at Barton’s defensiveness. “But we were going to go out for drinks, remember?”

“Oh! Yeah, shit,” Barton said, a sheepish look on his face along with his best puppy dog eyes. “Sorry. I forgot.” 

“We can always do it another time if you’re busy right now,” Morse offered, glancing over at Coulson, who was doing his best to hide the disappointment practically crushing him.

“No, it’s fine,” Coulson broke in, waving off her concerns. “We were just chatting. I won’t keep you – ” from your date “ – any longer.”

“Thanks,” Morse said, giving him an awkward smile before indicating for Barton to follow her out of the office. 

Barton shot one more look back at him over his shoulder, mouthing “Sorry!” with an apologetic smile. Coulson smiled back, but in all likelihood, he probably just looked like someone had stomped on his foot. With stilettos. Which was kind of how he felt right then, except it was more like someone had stepped on his soul. Or something. 

Because while, logically, he knew that Barton had to have friends outside of him, it was different actually seeing concrete evidence of the fact. 

Because, well, Coulson didn’t exactly have friends. Sure, he had Marcus, but with Marcus’ recent promotion they hardly ever saw each other anymore. And, yeah, he was able to hold a basic conversation with Hill and Sitwell, but even then, they never interacted outside of work. He’d never been invited to a party – had never even been invited out for drinks. Not since leaving the army, anyway. 

After all, why would you invite a guy whose name you didn’t even know? Hearing Morse call Barton by his first name – _Clint_ – had been like a slap to the face. 

Coulson sighed and rebooted his computer, preparing for another lonely night in his office.

\---

“Cheese,” a slightly static-y voice barked as soon as Coulson answered the phone, his sleep heavy hands fumbling with the device. “I need you at the Triskelion in under an hour.”

“Jesus, Marcus – ” Coulson groaned, practically falling over himself as he attempted to remove himself from his blankets. “It’s three in the fucking morning.” 

“Well, I needed you in Tanzania two hours ago,” Marcus retorted, his voice tight. 

“Tanzania?” Coulson parroted, alert now. 

After all, Barton had been sent back to Tanzania three days ago.

“Yes, Tanzania,” Marcus groused. “Hill’s down and Barton’s gone AWOL. You’ll get the details on the flight to Arusha.” 

With that, he hung up, leaving Coulson to hastily scramble around his apartment. Unsure exactly how long the mission would last, he did his best to be prepared for any situation while still packing light. It didn’t take him long, and soon enough he found himself racing down the dark DC streets from his apartment to the Triskelion, hoping that no one would try to pull him over. Thankfully he arrived unimpaired, making a beeline for Marcus’ office. 

“Not bad,” Marcus said in lieu of a greeting, looking at the clock on his desk which proclaimed that Coulson still had ten minutes. “There’s a quinjet waiting on landing pad three. It’s already stocked with any equipment you might need. Sitwell’s already there, and Woo should be here any minute if he wants to keep his job.” 

“Sitwell?” Coulson asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. 

Normally only one senior handler was assigned per mission. He had assumed that he would be filling in for Hill, but if Sitwell was also being deployed…

“I’m sending you in because you know Barton,” Marcus explained, fixing Coulson with his slightly unnerving one-eyed gaze. 

“He just helps file my paperwork,” Coulson protested, frowning. “I’ve never run a mission with him before.”

“Well Hill’s the only senior handler who has, and she’s not exactly an option right now,” Marcus replied, looking unimpressed with Coulson’s answer. “Anyway, Sitwell’s running point on this clusterfuck. Your job is just to get Barton under control, understood?”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” Coulson finally answered. 

“At this point, I just want everyone back alive,” Marcus sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “So be careful, Cheese.” 

Coulson nodded and left the room.

\---

“So, what’s the situation?” Woo asked, breaking the silence in the quinjet. 

“The original team was supposed to prevent a hit on Dr. Bruce Banner, a nuclear physicist working on an unknown project for General Thaddeus Ross,” Sitwell started, easing effortlessly into his role as team leader. “Banner was in Arusha on vacation, doing volunteer work which, as far as we can tell, is completely unrelated to his research. However, Hill’s team ran into problems when they discovered that the Black Widow had taken on the job.” 

“They’re sure it’s the actual Black Widow and not just a copycat?” Woo broke in, his lips pressed in a firm line. 

“They must be certain,” Sitwell answered, handing over the file containing SHIELD’s comprehensive knowledge of the assassin in question. “They wouldn’t have specifically requested my presence on the secondary team otherwise.” 

Coulson studied Sitwell carefully, taking in the set of his jaw and the tightness in his shoulders. Oh, he knew why Marcus had put Sitwell on point – anyone who’d been in SHIELD at the time of the famed 2004 incident did. After all, it was big news that someone had successfully stopped a hit by the Black Widow. Sitwell had nearly lost his life preventing her from killing Marcus, but the mere fact that both he and Marcus were alive was an accomplishment in and of itself. The Widow had no other known targets who could say the same. Therefore it only made sense to send Sitwell to try and stop her again. 

“Although I’m running point on this, I’ll have minimal involvement in your individual movements,” Sitwell continued, nodding to Coulson and Woo. “We each have separate goals. Mine is to neutralize the Black Widow. Coulson, yours is to locate and bring in Barton, and Woo, yours is to evacuate Banner and Hill – Morse if necessary.”

Both Woo and Coulson nodded, already flipping through files and beginning to determine their plans of action. 

“Morse and Hill will give us more information when we reach the hospital in Arusha, but what we know about the situation at the moment is this,” Sitwell went on. “Hill’s team managed to intercept Banner before the Widow, but were attacked at the airport. Hill was shot twice in the chest, and Banner once in the arm. Barton then disobeyed orders and left his post, instead choosing to engage the Black Widow in close range combat.”

“Why would he do that?” Coulson muttered to himself, the words slipping past his lips.

“That’s the big mystery,” Sitwell answered, shrugging. “At the moment, our best guess is that he’s somehow aiding the Black Widow, because both of them disappeared after the altercation.” 

“But Banner is still alive?” Woo asked, sounding surprised, and rightly so. 

“Yes,” Sitwell said, nodding. “Alive and relatively unharmed.” 

“Maybe Barton was trying to draw her away from Banner,” Woo suggested, a pinched, uncomfortable look on his face. 

“Well, for his sake we better hope so,” Sitwell replied, not sounding terribly optimistic. 

Coulson turned back to the file he was reading and hoped to god Woo was right.

\---

“Agent Hill,” Coulson said in greeting as he stepped into the otherwise empty ward in the Kilimanjaro Christian Medical Center.

“Agent Coulson,” she replied, her voice slightly muffled through her oxygen mask. “Are you the one taking me back?” 

“No,” Coulson answered, sighing. “That’s Woo’s assignment. He’s talking to the doctor right now.”

“You mean he’s bribing the doctor,” Hill said, giving him an unimpressed look.

Coulson shrugged. He wasn’t going to deny it. 

“Well, I can’t leave yet,” Hill continued, giving Coulson a look which he knew would mean it would take quite a bit of negotiation to sway her. 

“The medical care – ” Coulson started, hoping that she was talking about her freshly repaired lung, not the mission. 

“It’s about Barton,” she said, cutting Coulson off. “Before he went off comms, he told me to trust his judgment and that he’d be in contact within the next forty eight hours.”

“I’ve been assigned to bring him in,” Coulson informed her, noting the unease in her expression. “I can negotiate with him. You should go with Woo to the Naples facility. The sooner the better.” 

“Have you even talked to Barton before?” Hill asked, and Coulson couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed by her question, because _of course_ Barton didn’t talk about him, didn’t even mention him in passing, despite the fact that they spent so much time together. 

Barton probably forgot he even existed when he wasn’t right there in front of him. 

“Barton helps me with my paperwork,” Coulson said, trying not to think about how lame that sounded. Why had Marcus sent him all the way here when the extent of his relationship with Barton was _paperwork filing?_

“God, please tell me you’re joking,” Hill groaned, her head thumping back against her threadbare pillow.

“I’m not. It’s been going on for nearly five months now,” Coulson replied, feeling like he was missing something as Hill continued to stare at him.

“He once handed in a mission report that said ‘I shot who Hill told me to.’ Just that. Nothing else,” Hill said, still staring. “What the fuck did you _do?_ ”

“I just told him that he could either explain the reasons for his altercation with Agent Frederickson or he could help me file paperwork,” Coulson answered, wondering if he should mention that Barton often stayed for longer than he was required to, but he strongly suspected that that would only baffle Hill further. 

“Barton and I are going to have a long talk after this clusterfuck is sorted out,” Hill muttered, mostly to herself. 

“So,” Coulson started, clearing his throat. “What do I need to know about Barton?”

“What do you know already?” Hill asked, assessing him carefully.

“I – ”

_1\. He loves his bow more than anything in the world._  
_2\. He’s mostly deaf, but won’t sign, even though he knows how._  
_3\. He has a love-hate relationship with ugali._  
_4\. He’s a master at dodging paper airplanes, and even better at making them._  
_5\. He can (and will) sleep just about anywhere._  
_6\. If he ever can settle down and get a dog, he wants to name it Lucky._  
_7\. He misses his brother sometimes, even after everything Barney’s done._  
_8\. He’s never been anywhere in the UK._  
_9\. He drinks coffee straight from the pot (much to Coulson’s annoyance)._  
_10\. His Swahili’s utter shit._  
_11\. Coulson might be a bit little in love with him._

“ – nothing,” Coulson said, biting back all the stupid little details of Barton’s life that he’d collected. They weren’t relevant here. “Nothing important.” 

“Then let me take the call,” Hill protested, attempting to struggle up into a sitting position. 

“You know I can’t do that,” Coulson replied, moving closer in order to push her back down. “Our first priority is getting you and Dr. Banner out of the country and as far away from the Black Widow as possible.” 

“Dr. Banner’s the one who – ” Hill started, only to cut herself off as something in the bag next to her bed started buzzing obnoxiously. 

Coulson was on it before Hill could protest, digging around in the backpack until he came up with a burner phone. The number on the caller ID wasn’t one he recognized, not that that surprised him. Barton was in all likelihood also using a burner. Well, assuming it was Barton on the other end of the line. 

For a moment, Coulson considered answering it himself, but, considering Hill was right next to him, he handed it over to her instead. Letting her talk to Barton while Woo negotiated transport would work well enough, but the moment everything was set for departure, he would take over. 

“Barton, that better be you,” Hill snapped, letting a bit of her latent irritation bleed through into her tone. 

Which, Coulson supposed, was probably fair. She’d had a trying few days. 

“You want to _what?_ ” Hill asked, her tone incredulous. “Our orders were to _eliminate_ her, not – ”

The squeaky noise of a slightly rundown gurney distracted Coulson from what little he could hear of Hill and Barton’s conversation. He turned to find Woo wheeling the gurney into the room by himself. Woo nodded at Coulson, indicating that the doctor had cleared Hill to be transported, not that Coulson had actually had any doubts. The hospital was understaffed as it was, and to be completely honest, Coulson had been all for just stealing her out of the hospital. 

“ – but your situation was – ” Hill was saying as Coulson turned back to her, frustration and mistrust clear on her face. 

“Hill,” Coulson broke in, capturing her attention and indicating Woo and the gurney. “Let me take over from here.” 

“Coulson…” Hill warned. 

“Just let me talk to him,” Coulson tried, holding out his hand for the phone. 

Hill gave him one more long, assessing look before sighing and handing over the phone. 

“Barton, talk to me,” Coulson said without preamble, the weight on his chest feeling marginally lighter now that he knows that Barton’s safe. 

“Coulson?” Barton’s startlingly familiar voice asked, his tone more than a little surprised. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Well, a certain someone went AWOL and Fury sent me to bring him in,” Coulson answered, his tone carefully bland, but with a steely undertone. “So if you want to avoid me dragging your unconscious body back to SHIELD in handcuffs, you’d better start talking.”

“Natasha wants to come in,” Barton said quickly, getting straight to the point. 

“Natasha?” Coulson questioned, not entirely comfortable with the familiarity with which Barton wielded the name. 

“The Black Widow,” Barton explained, and Coulson was fairly sure he heard someone shuffling about in the background as he said that. “She wants to come in.” 

“Why?” Coulson asked, more than a little skeptical. “We’ve made the offer before, and she’s made it perfectly clear what she thinks of it.” 

“Look, sir,” Barton started, the formal way he addressed Coulson making him feel like he was losing ground, like they were somehow moving further apart in their negotiations. “Things have changed. It’s – I know her, okay? We’ve helped each other out before, and she’s – things have changed.” 

“I – ” Coulson paused for a moment, sorting through his words. “Let me talk to her.”

“Fine,” Barton said, after a beat. 

Again, Coulson heard shuffling in the background. He briefly wondered why he was even bothering with this. He had his orders – he knew what he was supposed to do. Sitwell was supposed to be dealing with the Black Widow. And goddamn it, he _knew_ that he was overstepping his boundaries, but he was doing it anyway. 

“Agent Coulson,” a higher pitched female voice said, carefully neutral. 

“Widow,” Coulson replied, just as evenly. 

“You want to know why I want to come in,” she repeated, although it wasn’t a question. 

“Yes,” Coulson said simply, a little annoyed at how she was dancing around the issue. 

It was silent for a moment, and Coulson began to wonder if the connection had cut out. He pulled the phone away from his ear, but everything seemed to be in working order. When he began listening again, he heard the murmur of Barton’s voice accompanied by the soft tones of the Black Widow’s. Not that he could actually make out anything they were saying, much to his frustration. 

“I can’t remember anything,” the Widow finally replied, her tone superficially cold and analytical, but Coulson could detect an undercurrent of fear in her voice. “The last thing that I can recall is seeing Barton and recognizing him. Anything before that is… inaccessible.”

He processed the words, processed the tone, and wondered if what she said was true. Not that it was really his call to make – deciding whether or not to take her at her word. That decision was Sitwell’s to make. He was just supposed to deal with Barton. 

“I’m going to give you a phone number,” Coulson said eventually, his tone not betraying anything. “You will call that number and discuss your situation with that agent using another phone. Meanwhile, I want you to hand this phone back over to Agent Barton so I can discuss his own situation.”

“That can be arranged,” the Black Widow answered, and Coulson heard some shuffling in the background of the call. 

Coulson then listed off the number, hoping that Sitwell wouldn’t be too annoyed about having this sprung on him. Then again, Coulson was pretty sure that Sitwell would appreciate it a lot more than if he had just decided to deal with it himself, which was always a danger when more than one senior handler was assigned to a specific mission. As tempting as it was to bring the Black Widow in by himself, Barton was his first priority and he’d stick to that. 

A moment later, the phone was handed over. Coulson didn’t saying anything. Disconcertingly, he wasn’t sure if he was doing it because he wanted to give Barton another chance to explain himself or because he wanted to intimidate an answer out of him. As the silence pressed on, Coulson found himself involuntarily relaxing, somehow calmed by the familiar timbre of Barton’s steady breathing.

“I know I’m in a lot of trouble,” Barton finally said, his words making Coulson scoff. 

“‘A lot’ doesn’t even begin to cover it, Agent,” Coulson replied, his voice sharp. 

The conversation paused again for a moment and Coulson briefly regretting referring to Barton merely as “Agent.” It wasn’t something they did – or, well, they hadn’t done it for some time. 

“Is Banner out of the country yet?” Barton asked, trying to change the course of the conversation. 

“Do you really think I’m going to tell you that?” Coulson snapped, annoyance building. “After the stunt you just pulled you’re lucky that that I’ve just been assigned to bring you in and not eliminate you.” 

“Yeah. Right. Stupid question,” Barton muttered, audibly closing himself off.

“So are you going to explain yourself or would you rather wait for the official interrogation?” Coulson asked, his lips pressed in a tight line. 

“Look, Natasha helped me out of a bad spot before,” Barton said. “I figured I’d return the favor.”

“By letting her escape from SHIELD or by bringing her into SHIELD?” Coulson questioned, sincerely hoping that it was the latter.

“I don’t know,” Barton huffed, frustrated. “She just – when I saw it was her, I called out to her and when she looked over at me she recognized me and then… I don’t know. She just collapsed. I don’t know why.”

“She collapsed? In the middle of a hit?” Coulson asked, confused.

“Yeah. That’s why her shot on Dr. Banner went wide and only hit him in the arm,” Barton explained, but Coulson only half heard him, his mind running a mile a minute.

There was absolutely no tactical advantage to her faking an injury, at least not while she had been so in control of the situation. In fact, from what Barton had said, it seemed like Banner would already be dead if she hadn’t collapsed. It also conveniently lined up with the moment she said she’d lost her memories. 

Then again, maybe she hadn’t actually been trying to kill Banner. Maybe this was all just a ploy to infiltrate SHIELD. Still, forcing herself to faint in the middle of a combat situation was a risky plan at best and a deadly one at worst. 

“Sir? Coulson?” Barton said, his voice breaking Coulson out of his thoughts. 

“Yes?” Coulson replied, trying to refocus. 

“Natasha wants to talk to you again,” Barton answered. “She and Agent Sitwell have just finished up. She just wants to talk to you, and then we’ll give up our location.” 

“Barton…” Coulson sighed, unsure exactly what to say. “I really hope for your sake that this is worth it.”

“Natasha is worth it,” Barton insisted, and god, wasn’t that a shot to the heart? 

_Natasha_ was worth it. Fuck.

Again, the phone was shuffled around and passed over as Coulson waited patiently. He heard a beep and frowned, checking the burner phone before realizing that the noise had come from his own SHIELD issue phone. When he pulled it out of his pocket, he found a new text message from Woo, informing him that he, Banner, Morse, and Hill had just taken off for Naples and that Agent May was waiting for the rest of them at the Arusha airport with another quinjet. Coulson noted that the text had also been sent to Sitwell before deleting it and focusing back on Hill’s burner phone. 

“Agent Coulson,” the Black Widow greeted for a second time, her voice just as even as it was before, but the undercurrent of fear in her voice was gone, telling Coulson exactly how Sitwell had decided to handle the situation. “Barton and I are in one of the pathology storage rooms in KCMC.”

Coulson blinked. He wasn’t expecting them to be in the same building.

“I thought Barton said that you had something to discuss with me before you gave up your location,” Coulson said idly, already walking out of the ward Hill had been in.

“I do. I just thought you might appreciate a gesture of good will first,” she replied as Coulson rounded the hallway corner and started towards a staircase.

“So what is it that you want from me?” Coulson asked, navigating the narrow staircase and trying to ignore the curious eyes of the Tanzanian patients lining the hallways.

“Insurance,” she said simply, but her words made Coulson stiffen warily. “I want to know I can trust you, because I can work with Sitwell, but I don’t think trust is an option considering our history.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked carefully, slowing as he checked the halls around him and wondering if he should ask for directions.

“Tell me something important,” she answered, causing Coulson to stop mid-step, wondering what the hell he could possibly tell her that wasn’t dangerous, but would still gain her trust.

“My name’s Phil,” he blurted out, surprising himself by the confession.

The Black Widow was silent on the other end. Coulson continued to linger awkwardly in the middle of the busy hospital, waiting for some indication that what he’d revealed was enough – or wasn’t enough. He frowned as the silence stretched on and he pulled the phone away from his ear, wondering if she’d hung up on him. 

He sighed, because _of course_ the burner phone’s battery had died.

\---

Surprisingly, Natasha Romanov – which was apparently the Black Widow’s real name, or at least the closest they’d get to it – agreed to come back to SHIELD with them, despite how she hadn’t actually gained anything useful from him. Not that he was complaining, of course. Maybe Barton had told her something adequate, but, then again, that would imply that Barton knew something of value about him.

Maybe Barton had figured out he was gay. Maybe that was the sort of information she wanted – enough so that she knew she’d have to use other tactics to manipulate him. Then again, this was all on the assumption that she hadn’t just reached the point where she was desperate enough to hand herself over without leverage. After all, she looked more than a little worse for wear when he finally found them in the pathology department. 

The plane ride back to DC passed by in a blur. Coulson didn’t say a word to either Barton or Romanov the entire flight, instead making awkward small talk with Agent May in the cockpit, leaving Sitwell to keep an eye on them. 

He didn’t see either assassin for the next four days. His part of the mission was done, after all, and he was more than happy to hand over the interrogation to certain SHIELD specialists. He gave his statement, of course, and was sure to paint Barton in the best light he could without sounding compromised. 

And it looked like his testimony had worked, if the sight of Barton passed out on the couch in his office was any indication.

Not that he was going to read too far into Barton’s choice of sleeping location.

Coulson dug through one of the cabinets until he came up with the blanket he’d stashed there after a junior agent had had a mild panic attack in his office. He just held it for a moment, glancing between it and Barton’s vulnerable form. Eventually, he unfolded it and carefully covered Barton with it. As he started typing up a follow up mission report, he wondered if he’d just crossed some sort of line.

\---

The next month passed uneventfully. In fact, Coulson would have almost been able to forget the whole Black Widow incident if it wasn’t for the extra hours that Barton was spending in his office, having been confined to base and banned from the range. He’d heard through the grapevine that Hill was just about finished with her physical therapy, so no one was more surprised than him when Marcus called him up to his office to discuss Barton’s reinstatement. 

“Shouldn’t Hill be in this meeting?” Coulson blurted out as soon as Marcus brought up Barton’s file. 

“She and I have already had a separate meeting,” Marcus replied, casually flipping open the file before bringing out another one, which appeared to be Romanov’s. “A meeting in which I informed her that despite the issues with her most recent mission, she’s still my top choice for Deputy Director.

“But,” Marcus continued, his expression lightening, “as Deputy Director, she will no longer be in charge of handling individual agents. Meaning Barton’s out of a handler.” 

“Did you plan this?” Coulson asked, his eyes narrowing. 

“I didn’t plan on Barton going AWOL, but I may have been looking for an excuse to see how you two interacted in the field,” Marcus said with a small smile. 

“So you’re assigning Barton to me,” Coulson clarified, picking up said agent’s file. 

“Not just Barton,” Marcus said, pushing the other file on his desk forward, too. “You get to deal with Romanov, too.” 

“Romanov?” Coulson parroted, picking up the file. “You’re not assigning her to Sitwell?” 

“Sitwell filed a specific request to not have to be her handler, which I suspect has something to do with his lack of trust in her. You know, considering how she nearly killed him that one time,” Marcus replied, unimpressed with Coulson’s question. “Also, Romanov requested you. Didn’t give any particular reasons why, though. Anything I should know about, Cheese?”

“No,” Coulson answered, because he was honestly just as surprised as Marcus. “Maybe she just wants to stick with Barton.” 

“She didn’t request Hill,” Marcus pointed out, clearly not buying Coulson’s answer.

“Then I have no idea why she’d request me,” Coulson said, shrugging. 

Well. He did have _one_ idea, but it was highly, highly unlikely. After all, it wasn’t like Romanov could have remembered his name even if his phone had only died after he’d told her. It just impossible. It had taken him years of trying to finally give up on telling people his name, and never once had anyone remembered it. 

Coulson shoved the notion aside and opened the final folder on Marcus’ desk, labeled “Strike Team Delta.” 

\---

Four months later, Coulson stumbled out of a quinjet, high on the endorphins still lingering in his system after a mission successfully completed. It had been surprisingly clean – a simple matter of switching out two flash drives, one containing top secret SHIELD passcodes and the other containing nonsense and a subtle GPS. No one had gotten hurt, and it almost would have been boring if he and Romanov hadn’t nearly gotten caught while rifling through the mark’s hotel room. They’d been forced to climb out the window, and on the twenty-second floor no less.

Barton fell into step with him as his feet hit the concrete of the hanger floor. He shot Coulson a grin, clearly feeling the same post-mission effects, pupils blown wide. For a moment, Coulson wanted nothing more than to dive in and kiss him, to shove him up against the side of the quinjet and mouth at his neck, to work his hand into the front of Barton’s SHIELD issue tac pants and –

“So, you gonna come out for drinks with us tonight, Coulson?” Barton asked, breaking him from his fantasy. 

Coulson paused, barely containing a groan as he tried to think of an excuse. Over the past few months, Barton had made it his goal to get Coulson to go out with the other agents for celebratory post-mission drinks at a nearby bar. So far Coulson had managed to beg out of it each time with halfway decent excuses, but he was running out of them pretty quickly. 

It wasn’t even that Coulson didn’t want to go out for drinks. Well, it kind of was that, but not in the antisocial sense. If it had just been the three of them – the newly minted Strike Team Delta – then he’d be fine, but these events tended to include other SHIELD agents fresh off a mission, too. Agents like May, Woo, Hand, Carter, and Rumlow, who he’d seen before, but hardly interacted with. First conversations outside of a work environment were always awkward, because people hardly ever knew what to do with a strange, vaguely familiar man who they hadn’t considered existed outside of SHIELD. 

Meaning mainly he just got ignored. And although he’d gotten used to it from semi-strangers, it would be a little more difficult to cope with when it came to Barton and Romanov who he considered… well, _friends_ , for lack of a better term. However, they would undoubtedly ditch him for people they were on a first name basis with. 

Coulson really didn’t want to spend the entire time nursing a beer by himself and torturing himself by watching Barton flirt shamelessly with Agent Morse.

“Oh, no,” Romanov said, appearing on his other side, clearly catching onto his train of thought. “We are not letting you ditch yet again. You can’t use your cat as an excuse this time, either. We were only gone for three days. It probably hasn’t even noticed you’re gone.” 

Which was probably true. He’d gotten a cat, figuring that pets didn’t care that much about names, and that because cats were less clingy than dogs, it wouldn’t mind being cat-sat by his neighbor every time he went on a mission. 

Of course, this plan seemed to have backfired on him, because his own cat didn’t seem to remember he existed unless he was in her direct line of sight. And even then, the only surefire way to get her to acknowledge his existence was to be holding her food bowl. 

So naturally Barton had fallen in love with her the one time he’d been to Coulson’s apartment. Trust his antisocial cat to have more game than him. 

“I’m not sure – ” Coulson started, but the words died in his throat, because Romanov already had a hand between his shoulder blades, steering him towards the door while Barton keep shooting him pleased smiles.

Coulson sighed and gave in.

\---

The last thing he expected to happen at the bar was for Agent Melinda May to buy him a drink. 

“Uh, excuse me, but I didn’t order a – ” Coulson started, giving the bartender a confused look as he set down another pint of the beer Coulson had been steadily depleting.

“Just drink it,” May said from behind him, causing Coulson to nearly fall off his seat as she grabbed the barstool to his right. 

“Thanks?” Coulson replied, looking at the beer dubiously and trying to wonder if he’d somehow stepped into the twilight zone. 

“It’s for Barcelona,” she clarified, surprising Coulson. 

He hadn’t expected her to remember that he’d been the one keeping the blood in her body while they’d waited for their emergency evac. He certainly wouldn’t have, after losing that much blood.

“Thanks,” he said, more confidently this time, and he even managed a smile to go along with it.

They sipped their drinks in silence for a few more moments, Coulson sneaking glances over in May’s direction while trying to figure out how to restart the conversation.

“I’m not hitting on you,” May announced suddenly, and Coulson flushed bright red, realizing how she must have been interpreting the looks he’d been giving her.

“That’s – I didn’t think you were,” he replied, trying in vain to return his face to its normal pallor. 

She nodded, giving him an awkward sideways stare. The silence that commenced afterwards was equally as awkward. 

“Do you know anything about cats?” Coulson said suddenly, barely registering the words before they left his mouth. 

“Not really,” she replied, raising a questioning eyebrow at his outburst. 

“I have a cat,” Coulson clarified, strangely disappointed. “She hates me and I’m not sure why.”

“Ah,” May answered, as if he’d just explained everything.

Again, the conversation trailed off. Coulson was positive that he’d never suffered through anything so uncomfortable in his life, and he’d once been held captive by Hungarian gun runners for five days.

“I had a golden retriever named Gabby when I was a kid,” May offered, surprising Coulson with her openness. “I got into my first ever fistfight when the boy who lived across the street asked me why Gabby was still alive, because he’d heard that Chinese people ate dogs.”

“He really said that?” Coulson asked, trying not to gape. 

“Yeah. He was pretty careful to avoid me after that, though,” May scoffed, although Coulson couldn’t help but notice the way her posture relaxed slightly.

“Well, I think my cat is much more likely to eat me than I am to eat her,” Coulson said, trying to lighten the conversation. “She’s mostly just disdainful, but sometimes she scratches.” 

“Maybe you’re just petting her the wrong way,” May suggested, taking another sip of what looked like a gin and tonic. 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Coulson replied, frowning as he mulled it over. How did he normally pet her? In fact, when _was_ the last time he petted her?

“Or she could just hate you,” May continued, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Coulson opened his mouth to continue bemoaning his cat situation, but he stopped himself, surprised to find Sitwell plopping himself down onto the barstool to his left, letting out a loud sigh. He glanced around, noting the large selection of empty seats. Huh. He’d never been this popular before. 

“For the love of all things holy, what the _fuck_ are you drinking, Coulson?” Sitwell asked, making him glance down at the glass he was holding and frown.

“Beer?” he answered, noticing a genuine smile cross May’s face for the first time.

“I can see that,” Sitwell said, sounding nearly as disdainful as Coulson’s cat normally looked. “I meant what brand.” 

“Miller Lite, I think,” Coulson replied, shrugging. 

“Ay dios mío,” Sitwell muttered, waving over the bartender and then gesturing to the two of them. “Two pints of Amber Waves Ale.” 

Coulson’s eyebrows rose involuntarily as he gave Sitwell a surprised look (which seemed to be becoming his default). He’d never heard Sitwell speak a lick of Spanish before, and he wouldn’t have pegged him for a beer snob, either. Then again, they never spent much time together.

“Are you two trying to get me drunk?” he asked, looking back to May, who looked far more amused than he’d ever seen her.

“Oh, you’d know if I was trying to get you drunk,” Sitwell snorted, taking a sip of the ale that had just been placed in front of him. “Right now I’m just trying to salvage your taste buds.” 

Coulson shared a look with May. She rolled her eyes at Sitwell’s antics, and Coulson wasn’t able to suppress the smile that was tugging at his lips due to the other agents’ strange behavior. He then turned his attention to his own ale, looking down at it for a moment before cautiously picking up the glass and taking a sip. 

“So?” Sitwell asked, pointedly ignoring May and Coulson’s silent conversation.

“It’s… good,” Coulson said, surprised, but his praise was genuine. “Really good. I’ve never had anything like it.”

“¡No mames güey!” Sitwell said, looking at Coulson with wide eyes. “I haven’t had shit like _that_ ,” he motioned to Coulson’s now abandoned glass of Miller Lite, “since I was underage and stupid.” 

“Personally, I think beer in general tastes horrible,” May commented, her first addition to the conversation since Sitwell had sat down.

Sitwell looked between the two of them, a horrified and pained expression on his face. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, unsure what to say. Then, he got a worrisome glint in his eye.

“That’s it,” he said, slapping his hand down on the bar. “Friday evening, I’m dragging you two on a tour of the best microbrews in DC. No arguments! You’ve both deprived yourselves for too long.”

With that, he took another swig of beer. Again, May and Coulson shared a glance. Coulson shrugged, feeling a little overwhelmed. May quirked an eyebrow but didn’t object. Coulson stared down into his ale and wondered what exactly he’d gotten himself into.

\---

Friday night, Coulson was drunker than he’d ever been in his life. His knowledge of Mexican-Spanish slang had also increased exponentially, along with his fear of Agent May. Well, not his fear of bodily harm, but _damn_ was she a devious prankster. He’d have to remember not to get on her bad side. 

Well, that was assuming he’d be able to remember anything the next morning.

“So – ” Coulson started, stumbling over his own feet as the three of them walked down the sidewalk. “ – so what’s with the Spanish?”

“Spanish?” Sitwell repeated, squinting at Coulson in the dim light.

“Yeah,” Coulson said, waving a hand at him. “I’ve never heard you speak it before and now you’re all… Spanish-y.”

“Do I look like an idiot, culero?” Sitwell snorted, kicking an abandoned soda can. “Like I want the junior agents cracking any more illegal immigrant jokes.”

“They do that?” Coulson asked, scrunching up his nose in distaste, glancing over at May as she let out a sharp laugh.

“There’s a reason I go by Melinda and not 明娜,” she said, Sitwell making a noise of agreement.

“Yeah. My viejo changed his name from Sánchez to Sitwell the moment he got his visa,” he explained, sighing. “Not that it mattered.”

“I like those names,” Coulson blurted out, too drunk to sensor himself.

“Oh yeah,” Sitwell snorted, tilting his head back to look up at the night sky. “Names fucking suck.”

Coulson nodded in agreement. Not that he necessarily agreed with the way Sitwell meant the statement.

Fuck names.

\---

The next time Barton asked him to go out for drinks after a mission, Coulson surprised him by readily agreeing. And even if he hadn’t been eager to talk with May and Sitwell again, seeing the grin on Barton’s face alone would have made agreeing worth it.

Of course, this led to plenty of knowing looks from his two drinking partners. Sitwell, the bastard, tried to convince him that “Me gusta tu culo” meant “I like your archery skills,” but the mischievous grin he kept trying to hide made Coulson more than a little suspicious. 

He googled it later. It meant “I like your ass.” There was no way in hell he was telling Barton that, even though it was true. 

\---

Strike Team Delta was… well. Coulson wasn’t sure the word “legendary” was quite appropriate, because they’d only been operating for just under three years now, but the junior agents sure used it to describe them a lot. And, to a certain extent, it was true. They were ruthlessly efficient and worked so well together sometimes Coulson wondered if they hadn’t somehow been soul-bonded when he wasn’t paying attention. 

(Of course, logically he knew they couldn’t possibly be soul-bonded, because that would make it so that Barton and Romanov could know his name, right?)

However, legendary didn’t mean invincible. Coulson had understood that, but up until this moment, he hadn’t really _gotten_ it. 

“Barton!” he snapped, his knuckles white as he clutched the other man to his chest, trying to ignore the wetness of the blood steadily soaking his dress shirt. “Barton, you’ve got to hang in there.” 

“ETA five minutes, sir,” Romanov called from the copilot chair, her voice cold and professional. 

For a moment, her tone made him tense up, made him want to practically growl at her. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. He knew that, underneath her cool persona, Romanov was just as worried as he was, but it was still so difficult to hear her like that when he was barely holding it together.

He fucking hated Budapest. 

“Co’ls’n?” Barton mumbled, Coulson’s name almost indecipherable because of how severely Barton slurred his words. 

“I’m here,” Coulson said, growing increasingly concerned as he noticed how unfocused Barton’s eyes were. “We’re nearly at the hospital. You’ll be – ”

Coulson wanted to say “fine,” but he didn’t want to lie. 

“Co’ls’n?” Barton repeated, eyes trying to focus on Coulson’s lips. 

He froze as he realized what Barton was trying to do. Carefully, he reached a hand over and removed the hearing aid from Barton’s left ear, examining it closely and sighing as he found it broken. Then he removed the right one, unfortunately coming up with the same result. Coulson looked back at Barton, trying to mouth his words slowly, but Barton seemed to be having some trouble focusing his eyes. Coulson grimaced, wondering if he could sign with only one hand. 

“Coulson,” Romanov said, her voice distracting him from his predicament. “Hold tight. We’re just about to touch down.” 

For another split second, he considered signing, but instead he give Barton an apologetic look, gripping him tighter with both arms. Coulson squeezed his eyes shut, the tremors travelling through the body of the plane radiating through his body. He snapped them open again when he felt someone tug weakly on his collar. 

His eyes tracked Barton’s lips as he tried to say something, no sound coming out. Coulson had never been very good at lip reading, and the way Barton’s lips trembled wasn’t helping at all. He was vaguely aware that the plane had come to a stop and that Romanov had rushed past him to wrench open the quinjet’s door. 

“What’s my name?” Coulson said, eyes widening as he finally realized what Barton was trying to ask him. “Phil. My name’s Phil.” 

But Barton didn’t seem to understand, his brow furrowing before he repeated his question for what must have been the ninth or tenth time. 

“Agent Coulson?” a voice asked, making Coulson glance up to find a medical team waiting just outside the quinjet. “We need to take Agent Barton now.”

“Oh. Yes – of course,” he stuttered, trying not to jolt Barton as he gently handed him off. 

Barton was still staring at him, still mouthing the words as he was placed onto the gurney. In a last minute compulsion, Coulson signed. His heavy hands spelled out: P H I L.

On the gurney, Barton mouthed “Phil.” 

\---

Coulson spent the next two days glued to Barton’s bedside, camped out in the uncomfortable plastic chair in the left corner of the room, next to the window. Romanov kept him company often enough, and occasionally May or Sitwell would come by to drag him down to the mess hall to force some food into him. 

Agent Morse only stopped by once, but that was honestly more the Coulson expected from her, considering the epic blowup she and Barton had had only a couple of months ago. For some reason she wouldn’t look him in the eye. 

Mostly, he did paperwork while he waited. It almost felt normal, like when he and Barton would do paperwork side by side in his mostly quiet office. 

Of course, he found it increasingly difficult to focus on said paperwork, mainly because he couldn’t help but replay his last interaction with Barton over and over in his mind. He wondered if he’d just imagined it in a moment of desperation – Barton mouthing his real name. Maybe Barton was somehow immune or maybe true love broke the curse.

Ha. _True love._ As if Barton was in love with him.

Most likely, Barton was never going to wake up, and in that place between life and death, the lines of the deal blurred. 

But then Barton woke up on the third day, blinked at him, and said, “Coulson?”

Coulson smiled and tried not to feel too disappointed. 

\---

He didn’t get to stick around too long after that. Although Strike Team Delta was temporarily out of commission due to Barton’s injury, both he and Romanov were still fully operational. Which was how Coulson found himself talking with Pepper Potts, trying to arrange a meeting with Tony Stark, who’d only recently returned from Afghanistan. 

“Well,” Ms. Potts said, smiling politely but apologetically, “I’m afraid that Mr. Stark currently has no openings in his schedule, but I’ll see what I can do, Agent…?”

“Coulson,” he replied, mirroring her polite smile. 

“Any first name to go along with that, Agent Coulson?” she asked teasingly, not noticing the way those words stopped him short, made his heart skip a beat. 

“Phil,” he said, his tongue tripping over the almost unfamiliar word. 

“Agent Phil Coulson,” Ms. Potts repeated jotting it down on her clipboard. “Thank you for your time. I’ll talk to Mr. Stark about setting up a meeting.”

With that, she left, completely oblivious to how she’d just turned his entire world on its head. 

\---

The phone felt heavy in his hand as he stared at it, trying to decide whether or not this was a good idea. He’d spent the entire night tossing and turning, wondering if he should call Pepper Potts to see if she could still remember his name – and what it would mean if she did. Was she a demon? Or were they…? But no, he was gay, and even if he wasn’t, he was far too in love with Barton for any of that to matter. 

Coulson squeezed his eyes shut, clutching his cell phone and bowing his head. He tried to take in deep breaths, but they all seemed to get stuck in his throat. Because this – _this_ was a game changer. Because yesterday was the first time he’d heard his name in nineteen years. 

He dialed the number. 

“Pepper Potts,” the woman on the other end said, her tone warm but businesslike. 

“Ms. Potts, it’s Agent Coulson,” he greeted, trying not to let his nervousness bleed over into his tone. “I was wondering if I could set up a meeting with you.”

“Agent Coulson, I’ve already told you that Mr. Stark is very busy – ” she sighed, for the first time indicating how much stress this whole situation was putting on her. 

“I don’t want a meeting with Mr. Stark,” Coulson interrupted. “Well, SHIELD does, but I’d like a separate meeting with you. It’s… about a personal matter.” 

The line was silent for a moment – clearly he had surprised her. 

“Not that I’m not flattered, Agent Coulson, but I’m afraid that I’m not really looking for a relationship right now,” Ms. Potts answered, making Coulson flush bright red as he realized how she’d misinterpreted his words. 

“That’s not – I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, still blushing. “I’m gay.”

“Oh,” she replied, sounding equally as awkward. “What personal matter did you want to talk about, then?” 

“I would prefer to discuss it in person. Maybe at the coffee shop across the street from the Stark Industries Headquarters?” he suggested, careful to choose a public place, neutral ground, in order to make Ms. Potts feel more comfortable.

“Okay,” she said after a moment, and Coulson heard typing in the background of the call. “Would twelve thirty tomorrow be acceptable?” 

“Sure,” Coulson replied, wondering if he’d be able to contain himself until then. “Sure, I’ll be there.” 

“I’ll see you then,” Ms. Potts answered. “Goodbye.” 

“Bye,” Coulson murmured, mostly to himself, as he heard the beep that signified that she’d hung up. 

He sunk back into his plush armchair and stared at the ceiling. He had absolutely no clue what he was going to say tomorrow that wouldn’t make him sound completely insane.

\---

Coulson arrived at the coffee shop fifteen minutes early and uncharacteristically ordered a caramel latte, deciding to splurge for once. He took small sips from it as he waited, his jittery fingers tapping out beats on the table and the side of the coffee mug. He somehow managed to refrain from checking his watch every five seconds, but he was sure that he still looked like a complete mess. Hopefully his agitated state didn’t scare Ms. Potts off.

“Ms. Potts,” Coulson said warmly, standing up and extending his hand for her to shake when she finally arrived at his table, not a second late or early.

“Please, call me Pepper,” she replied, her handshake firm. “I figure it’s appropriate if this meeting is about a personal matter.” 

“Well, thank you for agreeing to this, then, Pepper,” Coulson amended, both of them sitting down at the table in one oddly coordinated movement. 

“So, what was it you wanted to talk about, Phil?” Pepper asked casually, and _that_ nearly stopped his heart from beating.

“I – ” Coulson started, but he cut himself off, pausing to collect his thoughts. “Have you met anyone suspicious recently? Or not even recently, just anyone, anytime, who stands out to you?” 

“You’re asking me if I’ve ever met anyone suspicious?” Pepper questioned, giving him an odd look, and yeah, he could see why that would be a stupid question.

“Someone who wanted something from you,” he clarified, thinking back to that cold Chicago night, nineteen years ago. “Someone who offered you a deal.” 

At that last word – “deal” – he saw Pepper stiffen. Maybe he was on the right track after all. 

“Why? Are they dangerous?” she asked, going for worried – and she _was_ worried, but not for the right reasons. “Is someone targeting me?”

“Not you in particular,” Coulson answered, his gaze steady. “I don’t know exactly how they pick their targets.” 

“You said this was personal,” Pepper said after a moment, her hands tightening around her purse. 

“It is,” Coulson confirmed, noticing how Pepper’s shoulders relaxed at that. “Completely off the record.” 

“How is it personal?” she asked, and oh, she certainly knew how to ask the right questions. 

“It’s personal because nineteen years ago I made a deal with this person,” Coulson admitted, and although Pepper pursed her lips, she didn’t look particularly surprised. “I need to know if you have, too.”

Pepper looked at him, her sharp eyes boring into him, before she glanced away, scanning the room. Finally, she stood, gathering her things. Coulson scrambled to his feet, thinking that maybe she’d changed her mind about the conversation.

“Let’s continue this somewhere private,” she said, glancing back to make sure Coulson was following her as she walked towards the door. “My office should be secure.”

It didn’t take too long to get there, considering the building was right across the street, but to Coulson it still felt like forever. They walked across the street and through the lobby in silence, and the elevator ride was just the same, although Coulson wasn’t sure if that was because neither of them knew what to say or neither of them had anything to say.

When Coulson finally shut the heavy office door behind him, though, Pepper started talking.

“It was four days ago,” she started, standing instead of sitting even though it couldn’t be terribly comfortable in those heels of hers. “I was about to leave for the day, when a man knocked on my door.”

“What did he look like?” Coulson asked, thinking back on the petite Japanese woman wandering through the perfectly normal Walgreens. 

“Average height, Caucasian, blond hair,” she answered, shrugging as Phil absorbed the information and nodded for her to continue. “Anyway, I tried to get him to leave because he didn’t have an official appointment, but he insisted on talking with me right away. He started going on about Tony and how long he’d been missing for and – ”

Pepper cut herself off, crossing her arms over her chest and looking down at the floor, taking in a few deep breaths. 

“He told me he could get Tony back alive,” she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. 

“What did you trade?” Coulson asked, his mind running through all the different ways this could backfire on them. 

“My independence,” Pepper answered, sighing. “I’m basically bound to Tony for life.”

“Does he know?” Coulson questioned, a little concerned, even though he didn’t think Stark would abuse a bond like that. 

“No, and I’d prefer to keep it that way,” Pepper said, tilting her chin up, her voice more confident. “He never has to know.”

Coulson didn’t argue. After all, the only person who he’d ever tried explaining his deal to before was Marcus, and he honestly wasn’t sure how much had stuck, what with the curse and all. Plus, with the conditions of Pepper’s deal, any measure of independence from Stark, however small, should probably be protected.

“You said you made your deal nineteen years ago,” Pepper said suddenly, tearing Coulson from his thoughts. 

“I did,” he answered, nodding. 

“You must have been, what? Thirteen? Fourteen?” Pepper asked, a frown twisting her lips. 

“Sixteen, but I appreciate your more conservative estimate,” Coulson laughed, although talk of his deal still made him uncomfortable. “I was in a bad place at the time. I had just come out to my family, and they didn’t exactly react favorably. This person – ” demon, Coulson thought, “ – said that they could get rid of my family’s homophobia if I gave up my first name.”

“So Phil is a fake name?” Pepper questioned, frowning. 

“No, that’s just it,” Coulson answered, shaking his head. “Phil is my real name, but whenever I try to tell it to anyone, they forget it in seconds. In fact, for most people it doesn’t even occur to them that I could have a first name. They don’t even ask.” 

“But I was able to remember your name,” Pepper said, looking surprised as she unsteadily sat down on the sofa in one corner of the office, a little dazed. 

“That’s why I called you. I wanted to know how,” Coulson said, taking a seat next to her, sinking into the couch cushions.

“So this has never happened to you before?” Pepper asked, a considering look on her face. 

“Never,” Coulson confirmed, sighing. “There’ve been a couple of times where I thought someone might have remembered my name, but I’ve never gotten any confirmation.” 

“Do you think it’s because I made a deal?” Pepper mused. “Maybe the conditions of your deal don’t include people who have also made a deal.” 

“I suppose,” Coulson conceded, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. After all, with the sort of people SHIELD attracted, surely someone he’d met had made a deal before.

“Was there anything strange about either of the people you thought might have been able to remember your name?” Pepper continued, making Coulson dig back into his memories of the times when he thought either Romanov or Barton might have been able to comprehend his name. 

Oh. Memories. 

“Oh,” Coulson breathed, realization dawning on him. “One of the agents working under me – when we brought her in to SHIELD, she was suffering from severe amnesia. She still is, actually. The neurologist who examined her said that she wasn’t suffering from any brain damage, but she’s never even had a brief flashback or dream.”

“So you think she could have traded her memories,” Pepper clarified, mulling over the thought. “It seems possible.”

“But she could always just legitimately have severe retrograde amnesia,” Coulson pointed out, although he really wished that wasn’t the case. “Even though I told her my first name, she’s never used it.” 

“But you’re her superior, aren’t you?” Pepper said, frowning. “Have you ever given her an opportunity to use your first name?”

“Well,” Coulson replied, and now that he thought about it, he really hadn’t. Oh, he talked to Romanov often enough and even considered her a friend, or at least something close to a friend, but they didn’t exactly interact very much outside of work. Sure, she and Barton had dinner with him after paperwork often enough, and she was always there when they went out for post-mission drinks, but Coulson tended to spend more time with Sitwell and May then. 

Not to mention the fact that he’d only told her his name because she wanted to know “something important.” Maybe she’d mistaken it for some sort of code. 

“No, not really,” he finally admitted, bowing his head and pressing his palms to his forehead, wondering if he’d completely missed out on a friendship that he could have had for years.

Then again, if he hadn’t admitted his name to Romanov in the first place, would he have even considered it possible for her to remember? Probably not, he realized. 

“Then you should try,” Pepper replied, her suggestion more than reasonable. “The worst thing that happens is that she won’t remember your name, right?”

Coulson nodded, his brain feeling like it was going to burst from all of this newly acquired knowledge. 

“What about the other person?” she continued, hesitating before putting a hand on his back, rubbing it gently between his shoulder blades. 

“It’s probably more wishful thinking than anything,” Coulson snorted, trying not to lean too much into Pepper’s touch. People were rarely tactile with him – something that came with the natural emotional distance forced by the formality of referring to him as just Coulson or sir.

“Ah,” Pepper said, the gentle recognition in her eyes making him blush. 

“He was nearly dead when it happened, too,” he admitted, wringing his hands and trying not to think about how Barton’s blood had stained his clothes and how shallow his breathing had been, his eyes glazed and unfocused. “I told him my name, and I thought he mouthed it back, but who knows? I was emotionally compromised and he was dying. Maybe deals work differently for the dead.” 

“Or maybe you’ve just run into the same problem you have with your other subordinate,” Pepper suggested, smiling slightly, considerably more optimistic than Coulson. “Unless there’s more to it, of course.”

“More to it?” Coulson asked, confused. 

“You seem pretty attached to this guy,” Pepper said, and Coulson had to resist the urge to tell her that “attached” didn’t even begin to cover it. “I think you’re scared of finding out that he can’t remember your name. By not asking about it, some part of you can pretend that he can, even if you’ll never have it confirmed.” 

“Are you a psychologist?” Coulson asked indignantly, trying not to dwell on how right she was.

“The extent of my psychology training is one undergraduate course,” Pepper replied but she was smiling, knowing that she’d hit the nail on the head. 

“Well, I would say you should consider a career in it, but because of your deal, I don’t think that’s possible unless you want to be Stark’s personal therapist for the rest of your life,” Coulson said, grinning. 

“Oh, I already am,” Pepper groused, but her tone was playful, if a bit exasperated. “I just don’t get paid as much as I should for it.”

“So, you think I should – ” Coulson started, only to be cut off by someone knocking sharply on the door. 

Pepper glanced over at the clock on the office wall, surprising Coulson by cursing almost inaudibly. 

“I’m afraid I have a meeting right now,” she sighed, shooting him an apologetic look. “I really do appreciate that you came to talk with me about this, Phil, and I hope that we can continue this conversation at some point.” 

“Of course,” Coulson said, smiling and trying to suppress the jump in his heart rate every time she said his name. “It’s been my pleasure. Thank you for the advice.” 

“Just remember to actually use it,” she laughed as they stood up and walked over to the door together. 

“I will,” Coulson replied, surprised to find that he actually meant it. 

With that, he left, ignoring the suspicious look Obadiah Stane gave him as he walked through the office doorway. He was too busy dialing Romanov’s number to even really notice. 

\---

In the end, he didn’t get to have that one-on-one conversation with Romanov, because Obadiah Stane was a conniving bastard and Tony Stark didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. Not that he’d actually expected Stark to be able to resist telling the world that he was a superhero, but it was the principle of the matter. 

And then, well. Then Coulson found himself in the middle of the New Mexico desert securing an alien artifact. Or, well, an Object of Unknown Origin (OUO or 0-8-4), because SHIELD had immense issues with just saying things how they were. 

And, naturally, Barton was assigned to New Mexico, too.

If he was being honest, Coulson had been trying to avoid thinking about how he’d talk to Barton about the name issue by focusing on his impending discussion with Romanov. The logical course of action here would be to just talk with Barton now, but Coulson couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he busied himself with examining the strange hammer for the millionth time and bantering with Sitwell. 

But, well, he had to make at least some sort of effort. 

“Have you ever done something you regret?” Coulson blurted out, idly wondering if he should take it a little more slowly with the tequila. 

“Coulson, that’s like asking a fish if it’s ever lived in water,” Barton replied from the barstool next to him, sounding vaguely amused. 

“I mean, have you ever given up something that you wish you hadn’t given up,” Coulson said, staring remorsefully down into his mostly empty glass. “Made a deal you wish you could go back on.”

Barton paused for a moment, and Coulson looked over, studying his expression carefully. He looked like he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not to say something, conflicted. Then he smiled softly. 

“No,” he said simply, and Coulson knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was the truth.

He knocked back the last of his tequila and felt horrible for wishing that Barton’s answer had been “yes.” 

\---

He wished that he could say that the rest of what happened in New Mexico changed his entire worldview, but it really didn’t. After all, he’d believed in the supernatural and alien since the tender age of sixteen. A few Norse gods weren’t really going to make much of a difference. Surprisingly, Barton didn’t seem all that shaken either, but when he’d asked, Barton had just grinned and said, “C’mon, I grew up in the circus. It’s gonna take more than a couple’a gods to stir me up.”

Sitwell, on the other hand, spent their post-mission drink session getting completely smashed and wondering aloud whether it was too late to convert back to Catholicism like his mother had always wanted. Coulson had dryly replied that if he was going to convert to anything it should probably be Norse paganism. 

“Is this seat taken?” Romanov’s familiar voice asked, distracting Coulson from watching Sitwell accost May about her religious beliefs.

“Feel free,” Coulson said, smiling and then taking another sip of the ale that Sitwell had introduced him to his first night at this bar.

“Do you believe in a higher power?” Coulson asked suddenly, clearly taking Romanov aback. 

“No,” Romanov answered after considering it for a moment, “but I do believe in other powers.” 

“Other powers?” Coulson repeated, confused. 

“Things we don’t know about,” she said, looking at Coulson intently, as if she was searching for a particular sign from him, an indication that he understood. “Things we don’t understand.”

“Like what? Coulson asked, trying to understand if this conversation was going in the direction he hoped it was. “Like aliens or demons?”

“Well, I think we’ve already established that aliens exist,” she snorted, indicating for the bartender to get her another vodka martini, “but the verdict’s still out on demons.”

“So you believe in demons?” Coulson questioned, mind drifting to the fact that he’d always privately referred to the thing that stole his name as a demon. 

Romanov gave him another long look, assessing him in a way that Coulson had seen, but never been on the wrong end of before. He kept his expression open, hoping she’d find something there that would satisfy her, or at least make her want to tell him more. She stood up from the bar. 

“Let’s take this conversation outside,” she said, grabbing her jacket off the barstool and heading for the door, clearly expecting Coulson to follow her.

She assumed correctly.

“So,” she started, once they were both standing on the street corner, illuminated by the neon signs surrounding them. “What can you tell me about demons, Coulson?”

“Phil,” he corrected, his heart rate speeding up, anticipating the moment of truth. “Call me Phil.” 

“Then call me Natasha,” she said, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You know, I was starting to wonder if you’d been messing with me when you told me that way back when.”

“I’m pretty sure I was messing more with myself than anybody else,” Coulson answered, his palms sweating and heart thumping at her confirmation of his suspicions. “Because, see, in my experience, demons take things.”

Suddenly, Natasha froze. She went completely still, not even breathing, as she processed his words. For a moment, Coulson wondered if he’d accidentally hurt her – if talking to her about demons somehow messed with whatever contract she had with said demon.

“Natasha?” he asked, worried, but apparently his voice broke her out of her stupor, because she let out a large breath. 

“God, I thought I was fucking crazy,” she said, giving him a look so full of emotion it was almost overwhelming. “Imagining I sold my memories to a demon for a second chance.”

“I would say we could both be crazy, but I’m afraid once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, and three times is an enemy action,” Coulson replied, keeping his tone light, despite how serious this revelation was. 

“James Bond. Nice,” Natasha said, smiling at him. “So who’s number three?”

“Pepper Potts,” Coulson answered, figuring that Pepper wouldn’t mind if he told Natasha, considering their situation.

“Interesting,” Natasha mused, leaning back against the side of the building. “Not who I would have picked.”

“Who would you have picked?” Coulson asked, curious (and part of him hoping she’d say Barton).

“Hill, maybe Fury,” she said, shrugging. “I hadn’t thought about it too deeply.” 

“I know Fury hasn’t,” Coulson answered, shaking his head. “I tried telling him about my deal years ago, but I don’t think he remembers. He didn’t react, anyway. Not Barton?”

“I don’t think so,” Natasha replied, and Coulson tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. “He’s not missing anything that I can tell. Why, have you noticed something?”

“Not really, I just – ” Coulson started, his expression pinched. “I gave up my first name, and there was once when I thought he said it.”

“So that’s your deal-detector? Your name?” she asked, studying him carefully. “People can only know your name if they’ve made a deal?”

“It never even occurs to them that I _have_ a first name if they haven’t,” he admitted, trying not to think too forlornly about Barton, sitting right inside the bar, only a wall between him and this conversation.

“Interesting,” she said, clearly contemplating something. “So do you think there’s any way you could help me get my memories back?”

“Are you sure you want them back?” Coulson asked carefully, thinking about all the stories he’d head of her mercenary exploits. 

“I don’t know,” she answered after a moment, staring blankly across the dimly lit street in front of them. 

“How about I let you read SHIELD’s file on you and then you can decide,” he suggested, because then she’d at least have an idea of what horrors she’d have to brace herself for. 

“That sounds reasonable,” Natasha said, giving him a small, wry smile. “I’ve tried hacking it before, but you guys keep it pretty secure.”

Coulson hummed in agreement, having heard plenty of complaints from the IT department about an unknown person trying to gain access to the Black Widow’s file. He’d always suspected that it was Natasha, but they’d never had any proof, and, honestly, even if they did, Coulson wouldn’t have done anything about it. He would have given her access to it a long time ago if Fury and Hill hadn’t been against it. 

“How many of us do you think are out there?” Natasha asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know,” Coulson answered truthfully. “I’m amazed that I even found you and Pepper.”

“And they all think they’re alone,” she murmured. 

Coulson wasn’t sure what to say to that.

\---

And then, of course, the world went to shit. The entire world was in danger of being taken over by a homicidal alien maniac, and the only thing Coulson could think about was the fact that he’d never told Clint Barton that he was in love with him – had been in love with him for years. 

Not that Barton was dead. He’d just been taken by Loki, but that might actually be worse, because Coulson was suddenly confronted with the horrifying knowledge that he might be forced to injure or even kill Barton in the name of self-defense. Natasha seemed to be just as shaken by that prospect as he was, although he was pretty sure that he didn’t hide it as well as she did. 

It was almost a relief when Fury told him to bring in Stark. Although Stark was hardly his favorite person, Pepper had steadily risen to either second or third on that list, and at a time like this he could use someone like her. 

Of course, he could have done without the “Uh, his first name is Agent,” comment. He really didn’t need that sort of reminder at the moment. (Not that he ever needed it.)

Everything after that passed pretty much in a blur, which Coulson supposed was preferable to having every moment without Barton creep by slowly, every second distorting into an eternity. Even Captain America’s presence only did so much to bolster his mood – something Barton probably wouldn’t believe if he told him. 

And then, well. Then he was dying. Loki had literally backstabbed him and he was bleeding out. Oh, it was for a good cause – he honestly believed that Earth’s continued survival was one – but he was going to die in a dark corner of the helicarrier, having never even attempted to tell Barton anything. 

There was a security camera in the room, of course, and as he started to grow woozy, he wondered if he should try to leave a message for Barton, in case Natasha was able to break him out of Loki’s control. There was little chance that Barton would be able to read his lips on that tiny image, though, and the security cameras didn’t record audio. 

So Coulson began to sign. 

He was probably doing it all wrong. He had very little experience signing with anyone other than Barton, who never signed back anyway, and although he’d watched innumerable YouTube videos on the subject, those weren’t a proper substitute for real conversation. Briefly, he wondered if Barton would hate him for this. Would hate him for saying these words this way. Barton had never told him why he refused to sign – he suspected it had something to do with some sort of childhood trauma – but, then again, he’d never told Coulson not to sign. In fact, he’d once admitted that it was far easier to understand Coulson’s clumsy ASL than to constantly try to read his lips. When he googled it later that night, Coulson had been surprised to find that only about thirty to forty percent of sounds in the English language could be distinguished by sight alone. 

Still, he had to say this somehow, even if Barton would want it another way (assuming he’d want it at all). He’d only practiced “I love you” a handful to times, believing that, overall, it was a useless phrase for him. But in that moment, he found himself regretting his bitterness. His gestures, the way he pulled his crossed arms to his chest, felt clumsy, and his face felt pinched – his expression was probably all wrong – but he hoped to god that it would be enough. 

(I love you, C L I N T.)

\---

Coulson woke up. 

“So, you’ve finally decided to rejoin the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty,” a familiar voice groused, practically music to Coulson’s somehow still functioning ears. 

“Aaaughhh,” Coulson replied eloquently, squeezing his eyes shut again against the bright light coming in through the venetian blinds. 

“Why, it’s good to see you too, Marcus. Thank you so much for taking time out of your undoubtedly busy schedule to sit vigil beside my hospital bed,” Marcus said, in a horrible impersonation of Coulson’s voice. 

“I just got stabbed. Give me a moment,” Coulson protested, bringing up a hand to rub at his forehead. 

“Oh, you’ve had your moment, Phil. You’ve had nearly forty one hours of moments, actually,” Marcus said, and _that_ really got Coulson’s attention. 

Not the fact that he’d been out for nearly two days. That didn’t matter. Only one word in that sentence really mattered.

“Marcus, what the fuck did you do?” he hissed, his eyes snapping open as he struggled to sit up. 

Oddly, he only felt the slightest twinge in his chest where Loki had stabbed him, which only made him more worried. There were few things that would have been able to repair the extensive damage that Loki had done, but he was willing to bet that a deal was one of them. Marcus didn’t look terribly different at first, but, then again, people who had made deals rarely did. However, Coulson’s eyes were immediately drawn to the sunglasses replacing Marcus’ customary eye patch. 

“You made a deal,” Coulson said flatly, unsure if he was furious or devastated. Probably both. “You made a _goddamn deal_. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that you were going to _die_ ,” Marcus snapped, sounding angrier than Coulson had ever heard him. “Excuse me for saving your goddamn life.”

“And at what cost, Marcus?” Coulson demanded, although he suspected he already knew the answer. “What did you have to give up to – ”

“I would hardly say that one measly little eye is worth your life!” Marcus interrupted, stopping Coulson short. “What’s done has been done. What I need now, though, is for you to help me convince the World Security Council that I’m still fit for duty.”

“Marcus…” Coulson said, a conflicted expression on his face. 

“I don’t mean right this minute,” Marcus clarified, in a tone of voice the suggested he’d roll his eye if he could. “I mean when we get this whole – ” he gestured to his face “ – _blind_ thing managed.”

“Managed?” Coulson repeated, incredulous. “You’ve just completely lost your ability to see. You’re not going to be able to adjust overnight.” 

“I know that, but I’m not about to give up my position as Director without a fight,” Marcus retorted, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. “Hill’s Acting Director at the moment and I have one year before that title’s adjusted to Director. At least, that’s what the instituted regulations say – that if a SHIELD Director is in any way incapacitated, they have one year to prove that they’re still fit for the position. The WSC might try to change that, though.” 

“Does Hill know about this?” Coulson asked, still uncomfortable with this entire situation.

“That I’m blind now? Yes. That she’s Acting Director? Yes. About the deal?” Marcus paused for a moment. “Yes.”

“She knows about the deal?” Coulson said, more than a little surprised. 

“She was the first person to find me afterwards,” Marcus answered, his voice steady. “The conversation we had was… enlightening. You should talk with her sometime.” 

“Natasha thought she might have made a deal, but I didn’t think she’d actually…” Coulson said, trailing off as he tried to take everything in. 

“Romanov, too? Well, why don’t we just start our own little Stitch ‘n Bitch,” Marcus snorted, although Coulson was pretty sure he saw him relax at that revelation. 

“Oh, Pepper and I have already started meeting for coffee at least every other week,” Coulson replied idly, enjoying the incredulous look on Marcus’ face. 

“Has everyone but me made a goddamn deal?” he complained, although there was no heat to his words. 

“I only knew about Natasha and Pepper before you told me about Hill,” Coulson answered, a little more serious now. “Well, and you.” 

“It was for a good cause,” Marcus conceded, smiling slightly. “Who else would I send to wrangle your little superhero pet project otherwise?”

“Sitwell?” Coulson suggested, hopeful.

“Not on your life,” Marcus replied, cracking a real smile this time. “I’m aware of how colorful his vocabulary is when he’s not on duty, and I will not be responsible for putting someone with a mouth like that in charge of America’s golden boy icon.” 

“Captain Rogers was in the army, you know,” Coulson pointed out, amused. “He’s probably heard worse.” 

“Remind me never to translate Sitwell’s Spanish for you,” Marcus said idly. 

“So, I’m the new Avengers’ handler?” Coulson asked, trying to steer them back to the work aspect of the conversation. 

“I believe the term we’re using is ‘liaison,’ because they’re not officially SHIELD controlled,” Marcus replied, and Coulson nodded. “Oh, one thing, though.”

“Yes?” Coulson said, wary of Marcus’ tone of voice. 

“I may have told them you were dead,” Marcus answered, making Coulson let out a long, frustrated groan. “For the sake of teamwork and world-saving, of course.”

“Of course you did,” Coulson muttered, shaking his head and slumping back into his pillows. “Give me your phone.” 

“You’re going to tell them you’re alive over the phone?” Marcus said, unimpressed. 

“Like you have room to talk,” Coulson snorted. “But no – I’m only telling one of them over the phone, and she’s going to help you get your situation sorted out while I figure out how to clean up this mess.”

“Ingrate,” Marcus muttered. 

“Hey, Natasha,” Coulson said once the other person picked up, bracing himself for the storm. “Surprise?”

He was not at all surprised when the swearing started.

\---

Telling the Avengers that the rumors of his death had been greatly exaggerated was nothing short of draining. To say that the look of disappointment on Captain America’s face had been gut wrenchingly horrible was an understatement. (The look of betrayal on Barton’s face was worse, though.)

It took a while to go through the entire explanation – or at least the more believable one that he and Marcus had concocted in his hospital room earlier that morning – and the Q&A session afterwards had lasted even longer. Stark’s questions had been particularly horrible. (Barton’s lack of questions was probably worse.)

“Barton,” Coulson called out as the meeting came to a close and the superheroes started to disperse. “If you could stay for a minute…?” 

Barton gave him a curt nod and sat back down, but he didn’t say a word and he wouldn’t meet Coulson’s eyes. Coulson frowned, wondering if his presumed death had affected Barton that much or –

All of the sudden, a chill washed over Coulson as he realized what must have been the reason for Barton’s awkwardness. God, they’d seen the footage of his death, hadn’t they? Marcus would have undoubtedly used it to prove his claims, and Barton… Barton would have seen everything. When he’d started signing everything – saying everything he couldn’t say to Barton directly – it was under the assumption that he was dying. That he was going to die, and that he would stay dead. He’d never stopped to consider what he’d say to Barton afterwards, because he hadn’t expected an afterwards. 

Which was kind of a dick move, now that he thought about it – just dumping everything on Barton like that. But, as Marcus had said, what was done was done, and it wasn’t like he could just take it all back. 

“Barton – ” Coulson started, but he was surprised when the other man cut him off. 

“It’s okay. I get it,” Barton said, his voice sounding strange, rough in a way Coulson couldn’t identify. “I know that you didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean what?” Coulson asked, confused. He couldn’t think of anything he’d said to Barton that wasn’t the complete truth. 

“What you signed at the security camera,” Barton answered, shrugging, obviously trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. “You, uh. You got some signs mixed up. It’s no biggie, though.” 

Coulson’s blood ran cold. God, what had he said? Had he accidentally used his last words to insult Barton? To say something absolutely horrible? Was that why Barton was acting so strangely, because he thought that Coulson hated him?

“What did I say?” Coulson asked, needing to know. 

“Just some stupid stuff,” Barton said, still not meeting Coulson’s eyes and fiddling with the zipper on his hoodie. “I mean, you said you were in love with me. How crazy is that?”

“But I am,” Coulson blurted out, unable to hold to words back. 

_That_ got Barton’s attention. He looked up at Coulson, eyes wide and mouth ajar. He opened it and closed it a few times, about to say something before cutting himself off each time. 

“I do love you,” Coulson repeated, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for rejection. “I promise I won’t harass you or bother you about it, but if you would feel more comfortable with a different handler, I will discuss it with Acting Director Hill and find an appropriate replacement.” 

“You love me,” Barton parroted, mouth still gaping. “ _You_ love _me_.” 

“ _Yes_ , I love you,” Coulson said, growing increasingly agitated by Barton’s taunts. “But if you’re going to be an asshole about it – ”

“What?” Barton squawked, looking slightly panicked. “I wasn’t trying to – I love you, too!”

Coulson’s brain short circuited. 

“You _what?_ ” Coulson asked numbly, and now he was the one gawking. 

“I, Clint Barton, love you, Phil Coulson,” Barton clarified, a goofy, overjoyed grin spreading over his face. 

“You said my full name,” Coulson murmured, feeling even number now. 

“Was I not supposed to?” Barton asked, his grin shrinking slightly. 

“No! I just – ” Coulson sighed, rubbing a hand through his thinning hair. “Have you ever made a deal?” 

“A deal?” Barton repeated, sounding part confused, part wary. 

“I mean, has a stranger ever come up to you and offered you something impossible as long as you gave them a part of you in return?” Coulson asked, desperately hoping that he wasn’t wrong with this and that Barton wouldn’t think he was crazy afterwards. “Because it happened to me when I was sixteen, and now only people who have also made a deal can remember my first name.”

Barton paused, a conflicted look on his face as he examined Coulson. He seemed to be on the edge of saying something, but still the silence went on. Coulson was about to say something, about to try and explain it all away, but then Barton spoke. 

“I thought I was hallucinating from the blood loss,” he admitted, biting his lower lip. “In Budapest, you know. I thought I was dying and I was starting to panic, because I thought I was going to die without ever even knowing your first name. I was so fucking in love with you and I didn’t even know your first name.” 

At this, Barton smiled at him, a little bittersweet, and Coulson moved closer to him, reaching a hand down to twine their fingers together, squeezing his hand comfortingly. Barton cleared his throat, breaking eye contact. 

“Well, I was lying in the alleyway all alone – before you got there – and then suddenly there was this lady right next to me, just kind of looking at me,” Barton continued evenly. “I tried to say something, but I don’t know if any sound came out, because my hearing aids were shot to hell at that point, but then all of the sudden she was signing to me. She was completely fluent, but for a moment I thought she was using Hungarian Sign Language, because what she was saying wasn’t making any sense.”

Here Barton paused, taking in a deep breath. He seemed to almost shrink and Coulson’s blood ran cold as he wondered what the demon had possibly taken from him. 

“She said she could make you love me,” Barton said softly, making Coulson blink in surprise. “I told her I didn’t want that, though, so she offered me something else. She said she could let me know your name, and I, uh. I agreed to that, because I couldn’t die without even knowing your name.”

“What did you pay?” Coulson asked softly, part of him dreading the answer, but another part needing, desperately, to know. 

“I can’t ever fall in love with someone else,” Barton said, finally meeting Coulson’s eyes again, a lopsided smile on his face. “You’re my be all, end all, sir.” 

“Phil,” he said softly, smiling back. “Call me Phil.”

\---

“Hey, wake up!” Clint’s familiar voice announced, and Phil groaned as he felt the warm blankets that had been covering him disappear abruptly, exposing him to the cold air. “You sleep like the dead.”

“Too soon,” Phil complained, glaring at Clint, who was already brushing his teeth in the bathroom. 

“It’s been four months,” Clint protested, and although he knew that Clint was right, it still felt like everything had only just happened. 

“It’s eight am,” Phil complained, changing the subject as he squinted over at the digital clock on their bedside table. 

Yes, _their_ bedside table, because Tony Stark had all but forced them to come live in the newly renamed Avengers Tower. Phil still wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, because while the accommodations were great, the company left something to be desired. Well, except for Clint, of course, but he’d be keeping Clint company even if they weren’t living in the tower. 

“Yep,” Clint replied, popping the ‘p.’ “It’s eight am.” 

“Why am I awake at eight am?” Phil groused, turning over and shutting his eyes again. 

“Because it’s your birthday, and while normally that would mean you get to sleep in, I’m not sure how long it’s gonna be until everybody else invades,” Clint said, pausing to wash the toothpaste out of his mouth, “and if you want morning sex, we’re going to have to do it now.”

Now that got Phil’s attention.

“How romantic,” he said wryly, but he was grinning and had turned back to admire Clint’s form as he walked back to the bed from the bathroom. “You should have woken me up with a blowjob.”

“We hadn’t discussed it, and I wasn’t sure how you’d react,” Clint replied, shrugging, but his cheeks had flushed slightly at the suggestion.

“Come here,” Phil mumbled, still sleepy, as he placed a hand on the back of Clint’s neck to pull him down. 

“You haven’t brushed your teeth yet,” Clint complained, but he leaned in to kiss Phil anyway, moaning as Phil gently sucked on his lower lip, hands wandering. 

Somehow Phil managed to muster up enough energy to flip the two of them over, landing on top of Clint and moving to nuzzle his neck, Clint tilting his head back obligingly. Phil hummed contentedly, dropping kisses against Clint’s tan skin before taking a moment and focusing on a single spot, scraping his teeth over Clint’s skin in a way that forced a breathy whimper past his lips. Phil smirked, lapping at the spot with his tongue before moving back for a moment to admire his handiwork. The hickey was too far up on his throat for any shirt collar to cover it and Clint would be pissy about it later, but Phil figured that he was allowed to indulge a bit on his birthday. 

He stopped briefly to kiss Clint on the lips again, deep and dirty, but he broke away after only a short period of time to work his way down Clint’s chest. He brought one of his hands up from where he’d been holding Clint’s hips down to ghost his thumb over Clint’s nipple, drawing another soft sound from Clint’s lips as he bucked his hips up, searching for friction against his hard cock. Phil obliged him, grinding down on him, basking in the way Clint sounded as he gasped out “Phil!” needy and desperate. 

Phil gave Clint a private smile, soft and full of affection, as he moved his hand to grasp Clint’s own, twining their fingers together before pressing him down against the mattress. He didn’t say anything – didn’t have to. He’d much rather have Clint focus on his touch, the pleasure of sex, than have him struggle to catch every word, because while the hearing aids helped, they were just that – aids. 

Instead, he occupied himself with divesting Clint of his pajama pants and boxers, enjoying the way Clint’s hand squeezed his own more tightly as the fabric dragged across his leaking cock. Phil just enjoyed the view for a moment, basking in the sight of Clint breathless and wanting, spread across their bed. Clint was starting to look just a touch annoyed at the delay, though, so Phil laughed and kissed him again before leaning over to grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand. 

He resumed his previous position then, leaning over to press a kiss to the inside of Clint’s thigh. Clint squirmed a bit in response, spreading his legs wider in invitation – but Phil ignored it, preferring to tease, scraping his teeth over Clint’s sensitive skin again. 

“ _Phil_ ,” Clint whined, annoyed, but it was the right kind of annoyance this time, the type that they both liked. 

Phil acted as if he hadn’t heard him even though a shiver traveled down his spine whenever he heard Clint say his name, especially in this context. He switched to the other thigh, pressing a line of sloppy kisses downward, getting closer to Clint’s cock and hole, but never quite reaching either. Clint let out a frustrated noise, but his arousal tainted it, turning it to a moan as Phil finally pressed a lube slick finger to his entrance. 

Things proceeded a little more quickly from there, now that Clint had gotten a taste of what he really wanted and Phil became a little more willing to succumb to his own primal desire. Phil worked a second finger into Clint soon enough, spreading him open and pumping them in and out, gratified when Clint finally let out a sharp gasp, signifying that Phil had found his prostate. 

Phil was tempted to milk it, to tease him more with agile fingers, but Clint already looked like he was struggling to hold himself together, and, to be honest, Phil was a little too eager to slide his cock into Clint’s ready hole to abstain much longer. He tapped his hand against Clint’s side to gather his full attention, turning the touch into a caress as Clint nodded and canted his hips upward. 

Then Phil was sliding his cock inside, slowly, almost torturously so, inch by inch until he finally bottomed out. Both of his hands had moved to Clint’s hips now, gripping maybe a bit too tightly, but he couldn’t bring himself to loosen his grip and Clint hadn’t protested, instead trying to control his ragged breathing. 

Phil leaned in for another kiss then, holding himself back even though his hips wanted to push forwards, fuck deeper into Clint’s warm body. Under his lips and hands, Phil felt Clint relax again, felt his breathing even out, steadying to the point where Clint broke the kiss himself and rolled his hips, urging Phil on. Phil smirked, leaning back and adjusting their position slightly so he could pull out more easily before thrusting back in, dragging a loud moan form Clint’s lips. 

He considered taking things slow, at the pace they’d been going at earlier, before deciding that he’d already spent whatever patience he had, instead preferring to speed things up until he was fucking into Clint at a brutal pace. On one particularly hard thrust, the headboard slapped back against the wall so hard Phil was momentarily worried they’d cracked the wood – not that he was going to stop to examine it for cracks right now. 

Clint was making all manner of desperate noises now, groans and whimpers, moans and cries. No words, though. None except for the occasional “Phil.” 

Phil let out a grunt of his own as Clint clenched down around him and Phil licked his suddenly too dry lips before removing one hand from Clint’s hip to wrap it around Clint’s cock, lying heavy against his stomach. It didn’t take much – only a couple of firm strokes – before Clint was shouting “Phil!” and coming all over his stomach, some smearing on Phil’s hand. Phil himself wasn’t too far behind, the way Clint yelled his name just about enough to completely send him over the edge. As it was, he got in a couple more solid thrusts before he was coming too, collapsing against Clint’s chest. 

They just lay like that for a moment, panting and spent. Clint brought a hand up to twine his fingers in Phil’s hair, petting it soothingly. Phil just buried his face in the side of Clint’s neck, his warm breath ghosting over Clint skin. 

“Excuse me, Agents Barton and Coulson,” a mechanical voice said suddenly, nearly startling the two men out of their skins. “Mr. Stark just wishes to inform you two – ” JARVIS hesitated “ – _lovebunnies_ that everyone is waiting for you downstairs, when you’re finished.” 

Clint groaned and Phil huffed in agreement. They showered then, trying not to take too much time getting distracted by each other’s water slick bodies, but it was fairly difficult, and Stark needed to learn not to invade others’ privacy anyway. Soon enough, though, the two of them made their way downstairs.

Phil exited the elevator into the common room to find it looking like a party store had exploded there. Well, exploded in a very specific arrangement, but exploded none the less. 

“Happy birthday!” the crowd gathered around the kitchen table chorused, far too cheery and awake for this hour of the morning, in Phil’s opinion, but he appreciated the gesture, at least. 

“Thanks,” he said, smiling genuinely.

Then, his eyes found the banner hanging from the archway. It said “Happy Birthday Phil!”

Admittedly, the beginnings of “Agent” were scribbled out on one side, but, well, it had been quite a while since he’d seen his name written out. He surveyed the crowd in front of him, his eyes finally resting on Clint, who winked. 

Phil smiled. He could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, you can come hang with me on [my tumblr](http://authorkurikuri.tumblr.com), too. :D
> 
> _I do not give permission to have any of my works put up on goodreads or any other such site._


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